


Second-Best Destiny

by kcscribbler



Series: Second-Best Destiny [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Crew as Family, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Q Continuum, Star Trek: Generations Fix-It, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: With their universe threatened by the Q Continuum, AOS Kirk and Spock are forced to confront their place in it - with painfully personal results. Eventual TOS/AOS crossover, fix-it for Generations.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock
Series: Second-Best Destiny [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776076
Comments: 32
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story was written many, many years ago for a BigBang fic exchange on LiveJournal, back when only one movie had aired and I still didn't quite understand the characters. I was happy with the result then, but I recently decided to pull it down and do a complete re-write as I felt I understood the characters much better now.
> 
> The plot hasn't changed, but I hope my writing quality has. I ended up rewriting a good chunk of it, expanding the 'verse of the story to accommodate the timeline canon, as it was originally set one year into a then-prospective five-year mission, and adding minor now-canon plot points such as Spock and Uhura's relationship, as at the time of the original only one movie had aired and most canon was only speculation. I hope to do the same to its very ill-thought-out and incomplete sequel at some point in the near future.

**Title** : _Second-Best Destiny_  
**Characters/Pairings** : Spock, Kirk, Q, various. Background only Spock/Uhura  
**Rating** : T  
**Warnings** : Brief (apparent) character death, movie-level language. Spoilers for various TOS episodes and movies, mainly _The Wrath of Khan_ and _Generations_. Minor spoilers for various TNG episodes including _Sarek_ and _Unification_. References to any of the three universes have been footnoted.

 **Summary** : _"Whatever our lives might have been, our destinies have changed." – AOS Spock, ST:2009._ With their universe threatened by the Q Continuum, AOS Kirk and Spock are forced to confront their place in it - with painfully personal results.

Title comes from the deleted voiceover scene from the original 2009 movie:

 _"You once said being a starship captain was my first, best destiny. And, if that's true, then yours is to be by my side."_ – TOS James Kirk _in absentia_ , original reference to _ST:II_ , _The Wrath of Khan_.

* * *

**_Chapter One_ **

"I'm telling you, Spock, you two are just meant to be. Quit arguing with destiny and _apologize_. Gods."

One year into their five-year mission and only two after The Warp Core Incident, as everyone (a little hilariously) still calls it, he's still uneasy about traveling in the stupid, small, transparisteel-enclosed cages they call turbolifts for more than a few seconds. Spock knows this, bless his annoying heart, and invariably tries to talk his ear off whenever they're in them, sometimes about the most random topics.

It's a little adorable, a little weird, and a _lot_ annoying, when he's not even awake yet at 0650 hours of a sleepy ship's morning and he really at this moment wishes he hadn’t abolished the admittedly sexist habit of sending yeomen after his coffee because he wants to murder the next person he sees.

Anyway. Today, this habit apparently includes requesting relationship advice. As if Jim's a paragon of that particular virtue.

"As a human possessing an intelligence quotient twenty-three and one-half points above the minimum threshold for genius qualification, you surely cannot subscribe to belief in such a transient ideal."

"What, destiny?" Yawn successfully stifled, he wonders if he could be forgiven asking one of the engineers to grab him a coffee on their way up from below decks for alpha check-in.

"Precisely."

"Wait, how do you know my IQ to the half-point?"

Spock honest-to-gods rolls his eyes, a totally human habit he has never bothered to break. "I have been aware of such since your Academy days, Captain."

He grins, totally without mercy. "Assessing a new threat, were we?"

The turbolift chimes cheerfully, announcing their arrival on the Bridge, and Spock gestures for him to exit, changing the subject so effortlessly he doesn't even realize all three of his questions remained unanswered until they're an hour into alpha shift. The guy's good, he'll give him that.

To all appearances, everything's situation normal on the Bridge; no one ever knows when Spock and Uhura are fighting, obviously they're better officers than that. But he can tell, after all this time, and it's that tension that makes him keep Spock on the Bridge while he takes the landing party down himself later that afternoon. Forcing his officers to communicate will at least, well, force them to communicate, because they have proven to be officers first.

It proves to be both the best, and worst, decision he's made in quite a long time. Best decision, because apparently the natives of Durinius Prime (which they were very much not told about by the initial survey team) believe blue-eyed humanoids to be blessed by their gods. And worst decision, because the banquet they were forcibly made to attend as a sign of goodwill was apparently filled with a half-dozen local fruits way too close to the Terran strawberry.

Thank goodness he'd had the foresight to put Bones on the landing party too.

"I thought I didn't have allergies anymore," is the first thing he manages to croak out, after opening his eyes to harsh overhead light that can only be a Sickbay cubicle.

"Think again, genius." He turns his head to the left, and yeow, it hurts to even move his neck. Did they intubate him at some point? Bones nods in answer to the unspoken question, and he winces. "Superblood does _not_ guarantee you immunity to everything in the galaxy, you moron! How many times have I said do not touch things before scanning them – much less put them in your damn mouth!"

"Bones, the Science team said basically, _take your best guess_ , and we had to keep the indigenous people happy. And I haven't had an allergic reaction to anything in like, a year."

"Until now." The dry rejoinder comes from his other side, and he rolls his eyes, shifting back to look.

"Status?"

"The ship is currently still in orbit around Durinius, Captain," Spock looks fairly unruffled, so his spectacular collapse couldn't have derailed things too much. "The…residents of the colony which the landing party encountered have been conversing with Lieutenant Uhura and a contingent of blue-eyed Communications personnel in an effort to establish preliminary First Contact procedures."

"That should have already been done, and did I say we were missing a vital piece of information in that briefing?" He's pissed, and in pain, and Bones is worried for no reason now and has he said he's _pissed_?

"I am aware," Spock interrupts wryly. "Starfleet Command has already ordered an investigation into the previous survey team, and has dispatched a ship with the appropriate ambassadorial delegation to relieve the _Enterprise_ since we were unprepared for this type of primitive encounter. Once relieved by the _Lincoln_ , we may leave orbit and continue on our mission to chart the Phi Delta sector."

"And good riddance," is the grumpy mutter from the other side of his head. "How do you feel, Jim?"

"…Sleepy." His brain is a little fuzzy around the edges or something. A sudden, startling yawn makes him blink in surprise.

"I shall leave you to your rest, Captain," Spock says, and turns to leave.

He waves a floppy hand in dismissal. "Run while you can, Commander."

Suddenly his drowsing brain remembers the day and time. His eyes fly open on the instant as he jack-knifes upright on the bed, setting off every alarm possible in the monitors overhead. McCoy reacts instantly, slapping at the wailing klaxons with one hand and planting the other with force against his blanketed chest.

"Give a man a heart attack, why don't you? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Sorry. But I forgot – Spock!"

His XO had paused at the erupting melee, and now raises an eyebrow at him.

"We're going to miss our monthly call," he reminds his First, and not without disappointment because he does enjoy talking to their elderly Vulcan benefactor. Even if his own Spock seems to disavow the encounters quite vocally each time.

"I am certain the Ambassador would prefer you recuperate sufficiently, Captain."

"But I like talking to Old You!"

Spock actually _twitches_. "Is the Ambassador aware that you refer to him in that manner?"

"I'm pretty sure he thinks it's funny. Yeah, he looks exactly the opposite of you right now, so there you go."

Bones snorts, resets the bio-bed alarms and just wanders off in the direction of his office, knowing this is an old argument and obviously not wanting to hear it again.

"I have already contacted the Ambassador and informed him of your status," yup, there we go, definitely getting ignored regarding the whole Vulcans-don't-have-a-sense-of-humor-thing, "and he will postpone the call until such time as you are able to converse coherently." Spock's miffed, he can tell. "Unless you would prefer to simply wait until next month's scheduled communication."

He sighs, pinching his forehead. "When are you going to stop being so pissy about this?"

Spock has the grace to not feign ignorance of the expression. "I simply believe you are foolhardy to so tamper with the timestream as to make some of the inquiries you do, Captain. Despite the fact that the Ambassador refuses to answer many of them, I nonetheless question your wisdom in gaining knowledge we are not meant to have; nothing more."

He exhales slowly, feeling more than just physical exhaustion. "Our timestream's already been tampered with, Spock; you know that better than I do. I believe in using every resource available to beat unfair odds, and you believe that's cheating. We'll just have to agree to disagree." The last few words slur into a prolonged yawn, as the drugs start catching up to him.

Spock doesn't argue the point, because they've done it so often. They'll probably never agree, but he's found to his fascination that there are an awful lot of things that he and Spock just simply like to disagree on. As in, actually enjoy the intellectual debate. Uhura says it's one of the weirdest things she's ever seen, but it doesn't seem to bother her, so he counts it a genuine check in the plus column. There aren't many people who are willing to dig past his façade and actually find the person underneath, much less poke enough at it to make him want to retaliate.

He's unprepared for the lights to dim in his cubicle at Spock's voice command, and scowls sleepily up at his First, who pauses before the door. "I would be interested in finishing our aborted turbolift discussion, Captain, at a future date when you have fully recuperated from your ill-advised stint as a planetary pseudo-deity."

"Are we talking about the abstraction of universal destiny, or the fact that you were an idiot and asked Uhura if she'd ever considered cutting her hair?"

 _Finally_ , peace and quiet. He closes his eyes, and smiles in the darkness.

* * *

Destiny it is, then.

"So, you don't believe in it, or Vulcans don't in general?"

"It is certainly not a tenet of Vulcan philosophy," Spock agrees, contemplating the board for a moment. "Though science itself continually strives to find order and pattern in the universe, nothing so esoteric as predestination can fall under such a category in any branch of science."

"You see it as a religious or philosophical belief, then?" He tilts his head, genuinely interested, and totally misses the fact that Spock's white rook was lurking on the second tier waiting to capture the black knight he just dropped on the third. Damn it. "Because it's illogical to believe in something so intangible?"

"You could term it so. As the universe tends naturally toward chaos, it is illogical to believe there are certain absolutes which exist in each universe, certain events and people whose existence is preordained by some unknown force such as you refer to – unless said belief is part of some faith-based system such as a religion. Check."

He's spectacularly losing this game, unfortunately. One way in which he evidently differs from the elderly ambassador's Jim Kirk is that he's really not that great at chess. It isn't that he's not smart enough; he's got a grandmaster rating, enough that his serious games with Spock either last about ten minutes or three _hours_. He just doesn't have the attention span for the long game, he's too restless. Their recreational pursuits usually take them more active routes, or more scholarly ones. But they do play once in a while, because he likes how it channels his tactical and strategy skills, the challenge of keeping seven or eight strategies going at once in his head, discarding plays and reforming them on the spot. (1)

Except when he's distracted by something more interesting or more important; their discussion has been the former, this evening.

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds a little stupid, of course," he mutters, pushing a pawn into play to temporarily block the check while he rethinks his strategy.

"No culture's religious beliefs are stupid, merely not to be enforced upon another's against their wishes. Such unscientific principles simply do not fit within the Vulcan Way, Captain, but that does not negate their importance to other worlds."

"Do I have to _order_ you to call me Jim off the clock, Commander?"

The black queen moves to the third tier. "Check. _Jim_."

He snorts, not without amusement. "You become a better diplomat every day, Spock." He contemplates the board for a moment, fingers hovering over the white king. He can prolong this another six moves or put himself out of his misery in two. "That's a very kind way of saying _you silly humans can believe whatever you want, but we know better_."

Spock looks highly affronted as the white king slides backward a square. "Those are hardly my words, Captain."

"Mmhm. But I'm totally not a religious person, Spock, I don't even ascribe to Karma since we all know this ship is a total disaster magnet even though her crew's the best in the 'Fleet. So how does believing in Destiny make me religious?"

"And check." Spock sits back, a trace of impatience in his expression. "Perhaps the word is inadequate; I merely imply the fact that such a principle has no place in the scientific world."

"Then science and religion are opposite, in your view."

"A highly generalized view, but essentially correct in most cases."

"Interesting." He tips his king in acknowledgment that the next move will checkmate him, saving a little face. Very little. "There are not a few Federation worlds that have been founded on completely opposite principles, you know."

"I am aware. However, Vulcan was not one of them."

"Acknowledged."

"I understand that Terra was formed in much the same manner. Your ancient Church was highly intolerant of the scientific world, was it not?"

"Oh good grief, yes. Even in the twenty-first century people were still denying science in favor of religion. People believe what they need to believe, Spock. And…maybe that goes for Destiny, too."

Spock pushes the board to one side, tilting his head in question. "One would think your opinion of such a force would be rather low, since a flaw in its original flow of time would seemingly be what killed your father."

"A flaw which could be considered mutual," he replies, pointedly but gently. Neither statement is the verbal volley it would have been years ago, simply a scientific observation. One is a scarred wound, one still healing, but time will continue to help both.

He receives a calculated nod.

"I never said it was perfect, Spock," he answers, with a small gesture of uncertainty between them. "But I have to believe there's some kind of destiny out there. I just do."

"But why?" That's genuine curiosity he can see in his First's eyes.

"Because…" He swallows, and looks down at his hands for a moment. Gives a sort of one-shouldered shrug. "Because I don't believe in luck, Commander. And I'm an incredibly, ridiculously lucky man." He half-smiles. "Who else gets a second life to live? And why did all our paths converge on the _Enterprise_ – not just once, or twice, but three times now? How has random chance operated in our favor every single time, through every single crisis – including two of the biggest ones to ever hit the galaxy in our lifetimes.

"When I think about how easily one thing going wrong – more wrong – could have wrecked everything, for all of us…" He firmly swallows a cracking voice, putting away recent and less recent pains. "We should be space debris right now, Spock, many times over. But all of us are here. We were all here, during the Battle of Vulcan – not on the _Farragut_ , or the _Reliant_ , or anywhere else. You were all safely on the Bridge or in Engineering when the _Vengeance_ tore the ship apart at the seams. You all pulled a freaking miracle out of thin air and saved my ass twelve hours later. Since then, every road we take leads us back here.

"I _have_ to believe in it, Spock," he finishes, gesturing vaguely with one hand to the rest of the ship. "There _has_ to be some kind of destiny in the universe, even if it's warped and changed from what we'd think would be the perfect version of it. Otherwise, think of how many variables would have had to become massive coincidence to bring us to where we are today? If you'd jettisoned me on any planet other than Delta Vega way back when. If you'd left Uhura on the _Farragut_ , and not transferred her onto the _Enterprise_ when you did. If we hadn't been able to get you out of that volcano on Nibiru in time. If I'd been three degrees off landing on the _Vengeance_ without a working visor screen. If –"

"Enough, Jim," Spock interjects, and the very rare interruption shows clearly how disturbing he finds this conversation. "I see your reasoning for belief in such a system of destiny, but I do not believe our entire lives are guided by some such all-governing force as you describe. To place belief in such would entirely negate the freedom of choice and free will afforded to every sentient being in the galaxy."

"I'm not saying Destiny decided my favorite color would be green and that I'd have a blueberry bagel for breakfast this morning, Commander," he replies, purposely lightheartedly. Spock's tension visibly fades a little at his tone. "But there are certain, somewhat more important, things in our lives – things that the Ambassador has corroborated happened in his timeline too – that you can't explain as just monstrous coincidences. Can you?"

Spock's eyebrows knit. "I cannot," he admits slowly. "But the majority of the events you describe were simply the logical progression of thought processes and intelligent decisions – human or otherwise – set in motion by participants in that same chain of events. A certain element of random chance must be factored into the equation, in addition to the will power of the participants involved."

"You're just sticking a different label on it and calling it 'logical decision-making,'" he protests. "Tomato, to-mah-to. I call it Destiny, you call it logical decisions and an element of random chance operating in our favor."

"Perhaps there are more instances than we realize, in which one culture's abstract terminology may have a scientific extrapolation in another. This would be an interesting xenolinguistic topic to bring up to Nyota."

And this is why he loves talking nerdy with Spock.

His inter-comm whistles, effectively ending the pleasantries. Always on-call, the captain is. He reaches over, chair tipping precariously on its back supports, and slaps haphazardly at the desk switch. "Kirk here."

 _"Sir, deflector shields have picked up an anomaly in space that is not on our charts,"_ Chekov's voice filters through, accent heavily pronounced due to excitement. _"I belief you had better bring up the Commander and see for yourself, Keptin."_

"Greater scientific detail than 'an anomaly,' would be appreciated, Mr. Chekov." Spock's voice intones behind him, and he resists the urge to grin at the sudden squirming he's sure is happening on the other end of the communication.

_"Aye, sir, right away, sir…it appears to be a…fluctuation of energy, sir."_

"Type of energy, Ensign?"

_"…Unknown, Meester Spock. Sir."_

Fantastic. He tries not to laugh as Spock looks ceiling-ward in that hilarious gods-help-me-I-live-amongst-idiots expression he gets when one of his proteges isn't up to Vulcan standard.

 _"But the sensors say there is nothing there, Commander,"_ Chekov adds quickly, and then he rattles off a series of numbers and statistics from the refraction scanners that are apparently enough to prove that to his CSO.

"Sensor malfunction, Spock?"

"Very likely. I will run full diagnostics when we reach the Bridge to determine the source."

"Mr. Chekov, continue monitoring," he instructs, wishing for something a little more exciting than a sensor malfunction to happen. "We'll be up there shortly. And –"

_"Keptin! The energy reading is speeding toward us! It's –"_

_"INTRUDER ALERT,"_ the generic female tones of the computer warn cheerfully. _"Repeat, Intruder Alert. All hands, General Quarters. Alert status."_

The back supports of his chair thud on durasteel flooring, sending it rocking crazily in an empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter One  
> (1) We do see TOS Kirk beat Spock at chess at least once, in Charlie X, and we see him on the odd occasion giving Spock a run for his money. I don't see AOS Kirk as having quite the same personality, however, preferring more active recreation, and that's a personality trait difference I've chosen to adopt here.


	2. Chapter Two

**_Chapter Two_ **

He barrels out of the turbolift, followed closely by his First Officer. "Report."

"Energy reading suddenly fluctuated and then penetrated our shields, sir," Sulu's crisp reply falls into empty space as the young man evacuates the command chair and resumes the navigation console. "Because we can't identify it and it's moving so fast, we can't tell where exactly in the ship it is."

"Deflector shields snapped on when it approached, sir," Chekov speaks up, casting a glance at Spock as he bends over the Science console, "but it made no difference to the anomaly's speed."

"It sliced right through them like they weren't even on, Captain," the young ensign at the Engineering station added, frowning at his console as he types with both hands. "I'm even modulating the frequencies and it's still not slowing it down. Whatever it is, it's _smart_."

"Ensign Mercer is correct, Captain. The fact that it is able to move through a modulating energy frequency indicates intelligence, and yet our sensors do not register any unidentified life-forms currently aboard ship."

He spins his chair toward Communications. "Lieutenant?"

"I hailed it on all languages and frequencies when we first sighted it, Captain, as per regulation. No response of any kind. But it made a beeline straight toward us, so it is definitely intelligent, not just sentient."

He has a headache, and it only promises to get worse from here. "Turn off that siren," he snaps, though from the curt nod and understanding look he receives he knows Uhura's aware the irritation isn't directed at her personally. "All hands stand by red alert. Lock down the Auxiliary Bridge." He glances over at Spock's raised eyebrow as his Communications Chief relays the terse orders through the ship's intra-comm. "If it is an advanced, intelligent life-form that can evade our shielding, I'm guessing it can take over anything on board it wants to," he clarifies tersely. "But it can't hurt to try to keep it out. Or at least direct it this way and not aft."

The pinging of an alarm on Spock's console distracts the Vulcan for a moment.

"Mr. Spock?"

"Unidentified energy readings throughout the saucer section, Captain. Distortion of the sensor scans make identification impossible at this time."

"Can we throw up a forcefield somewhere in the saucer section to, I don't know, corral it somehow?"

" _Nyet_ , Keptin, if it plowed through a Phase One shield array there is nothing _on_ the ship that is going to hold it at any point!"

From behind him, there's a sudden exclamation and what sounds like a Cardassian invective. He half-turns in time to see Uhura suddenly yank the earpiece from her ear. "Widescale channel malfunctions, sir," she says dryly in answer to his unspoken question, rubbing the side of her head. " _Loud_ malfunctions."

He tries not to smile. "You all right, Lieutenant?"

"I'm fine, sir. But we probably blew several circuits on the Engineering level. Do you hear that?"

Judging from the pained expression on his First's face, Spock's Vulcan ears have no doubt already picked up the maddening whine of interference that is currently humming throughout the air on the Bridge – and yeah, now even he can feel the electricity in the air.

This could be bad.

"Can we send out a subspace burst to Starfleet? We may not get a chance later if it fries the deflector dish."

Her eyes flash with intent. "I’ll do what I can. I might be able to clear the emergency channel at least. Corsina, take this chair and don't touch anything until I tell you." She immediately drops with vicious intent to the motherboard under the console, as a young redshirt hastily slides into her chair, intent and ready for her signal.

As there's nothing he can do to help them, and nothing he can do until they can figure out a way to corral this thing that's invaded his ship, Jim yanks his mind back into the here and now, and turns his chair back toward the viewscreen. His hair's starting to stand on end from the electric charge in the air, and –

And it just _stops_ , out of nowhere, when a random figure appears like five feet in front of him, _out of nowhere_.

"…The hell?" he asks, blankly.

Chekov half-turns and gives a startled little yelp, which then draws the attention of the rest of the otherwise engaged Bridge crew, and it's testament to how insane their lives really are that pandemonium doesn't erupt, only a controlled security drill.

" _Well_." The man (being?) sniffs, obviously affronted. "That was anticlimactic, I must say." Sharp eyes, much sharper than the careless attitude would indicate, sweep his Bridge with a calculating look that makes him highly uneasy. "I was expecting so much more from a ship of your reputation, Captain."

Okay, that's not good. Obviously, this whatever-he-is is no ordinary alien, and the fact that he's dressed in some weird approximation of what might have been a Starfleet Engineering uniform in a universe that worshipped the ancient god of Technicolor means he either knows more about them than they want him to, or not enough. Either is dangerous.

A menacing movement of air tells him a Vulcan shadow is looming behind him, and that gives him the courage to not plant his face in his hands or show any trace of the wariness he feels.

"…Right. So who are you, again?"

"Oh, come, come, Captain; you are even less amusing than your parallel-universal counterparts!" Whoever – whatever – it is, it's _smiling_ , and it's scarier than Spock performing a shuttlecraft pre-flight checklist. "You starship captains are all alike, you know. So enamored with these silly little flying villages full of pathetic mortals wandering about the galaxy in an effort to prove yourselves more important than you are."

Wonderful, so his Bridge has been appropriated by a delusional demi-god.

Wait, parallel-universal counterparts?

He shoots out of his chair, and nearly runs into the man standing before him, who is watching his growing agitation with cold, amused eyes.

"What _are_ you?"

The being winks infuriatingly. "Would you believe me if I told you I am an Omnipotent?"

"What, not another one?" He hears a faint snicker from the helm as he manages to produce a theatrical groan to diffuse the tension he can feel starting to mount. "Why can't you people leave us alone?"

The man looks highly offended. "Do you mean to say another of us has been in contact with you, James?"

He scowls. "Don't call me that. And we get all kinds of wack jobs in this business. It's basically in the job description, dealing with entities that think they can learn from humanity – sorry, all lower life-forms – by putting them through various tests. It gets old after awhile, doesn't it, Spock?"

"Indeed," is the sagacious observation.

"You should have seen the nutcases we ran into on Triskelion three missions back," he continues, enjoying the look of exasperation that is rapidly creeping across the entity's face. (1) "I will admit, they had nothing on your magical appearance flair, though. So what is your schtick, exactly?"

The being looks at him for a moment, head cocked to one side, and again he wants to close his eyes against the garish brilliance of the scarlet uniform. Honestly, what idiot would have ever assigned that color to Security in any universe was an absolute moron; it wouldn't have been camouflaged anywhere except a circus tent.

"There’s no need to be insulting to the poor deceased, my dear captain. But I will admit to not having done my research properly. If it bothers you that much…" is the apparently inapropros comment, and then a sudden brilliant flash of light blinds him for a moment. Half the Bridge crew reflexively starts toward him as he throws an arm up over his face, but a moment later blinks to see that he's completely unharmed.

Scowling at the intruder, he waves them back to their stations, and all but Spock reluctantly obey. Their unwelcome guest is now garbed in the subdued gold of their current Command uniform, and the weave has transformed to the same more durable material as their own.

"An improvement, certainly, though this is very much not my color…" The being pats himself down in curiosity, and the uniform changes under his hands, flowing smoothly into to the maroon of Engineering and Ops.

Jim blinks, because that’s a hell of a lot of psychokinetic power going on with what looks like zero effort. This whatever-he-is, is likely very dangerous, despite his flippant attitude.

"And I have to say, friend James, that this _Enterprise_ is certainly ahead of her time. This pristine white instead of that perfectly awful drab grey is a distinct improvement in interior decorating. Now, if you could only have acquired a sense of humor in the universe-splintering, that would make this whole affair _so_ much easier."

"Oh, I have a sense of humor," he replies dryly. One quick twitch of his hand behind his back, and knows Uhura is now signaling Security through what should be an interference-free channel, if she hasn't already. "Somehow I just don't think you're going to prove very good entertainment for us. Our track record with deities isn't the best in that respect."

A melodramatic gesture of _who, me?_ "You wound me, James."

"I wish," he mutters, glancing surreptitiously at the turbolift. Seriously, he's going to have drills all day long with Security after this is over if they can't move their asses faster than this in a Red Alert. They should have already been on their way to the Bridge, his summons is just informative.

The entity in front of him yawns, inspecting his nails with a lazy flourish. "They are frozen in place, six levels down, Captain; your lifts are all malfunctioning. Quite mysteriously, too; are you certain that Mr. Scott of yours is truly as efficient as he professes to be?"

Okay, this isn't funny. "All right," he snaps, fists clenching at his sides. "Who exactly are you, and what do you want with me?"

"Your parallel counterpart encountered me in my somewhat impetuous, misspent youth, whilst I had assumed the name of Trelane," the being replies, smirking at some unknown memory, "but you may simply call me…Q." (2,3)

"Q." He repeats the word slowly, trying to place it. Some vague memory stirs briefly in his head – one of those vestiges of stolen remembrance that occasionally flares up, residual from his impromptu mind-meld those years ago with the elderly ambassador and made even vaguer now after being re-generated after Khan. A tense argument between this guy and a dignified, balding captain, half-seen through an old man's mental eyes during a grief-filled mind fusion. And a very young, immature child-god, practicing his parlor tricks on an unamused _Enterprise_ crew…in another lifetime, another universe.

Oh, that’s not good.

A smile, but full of malicious intent instead of amusement, as Q obviously either sees or senses his dawning realization, and the not inconsiderable fear lurking underneath at the knowledge of what this being can do.

"Well, well, friend James. It would appear that someone has been cheating the flow of normal time." He folds his arms in defiance as Q's eyes bore into his. "You know me, then."

"I know enough." He keeps his voice calm, but his mind is already racing out of control, trying to decide what to do, where in the world they stand a chance of getting out of this.

"Captain?" Poor Spock is obviously clueless.

He sighs, looks back at his surprised crew. "He's…from our parallel universe. The one Nero came from."

"Technically, the Q Continuum exist _outside_ the bounds of the multiverse. And technically, the universe to which you refer is not merely a parallel universe; it is your parent universe, and you are simply a splinter of it, along with the other splintered universes which resulted from Ambassador Spock's making a royal _hash_ out of the Romulan supernova." (4)

Hot anger bred of loyalty pulses through him at the disrespect. He had seen how the mistake of a lifetime, the destruction of the only dream Ambassador Spock had left in the universe, had broken the elderly Vulcan's heart. "It wasn't his fault," he snaps, surprising even himself with the amount of ire that fuses hatred into the words.

"Of course it was; he miscalculated," Q responds, seemingly surprised. A flippant wave of a languid hand. "These things happen. Destiny does not take into consideration the shortcomings of you petty mortals who inhabit the continuum of space-time."

Jim takes a deep breath, forces his fists to unclench.

"But the consequences of his mistake caused the ramifications you see yourself in the universe around you," Q adds. "Universes created when they were never meant to exist, lives changed when they should not have been tampered with. The man is a walking exponential paradox." The being's eyes flick pointedly to Spock. "You were never intended to live in a splintered universe from the Primary Universe."

"Nevertheless, we do. Your insistence upon bringing up what might have been is not logical,” Spock interjects calmly, voicing an opinion for the first time. Jim grabs it and lets it anchor him in the whole maelstrom of weirdness that's taken his Bridge by storm. "Whatever our lives might have been in your universe, our destinies have changed." (5)

"But that's just it, Spock of Vulcan," Q drops his voice conspiratorially, causing both of them to have to lean forward to hear him. "Or should I say Spock of _New_ Vulcan? No matter." Jim closes his eyes to keep from showing how badly he wants to punch the so-called Omnipotent in the face. "Your precious Ambassador Spock _destroyed_ your destinies; you _have_ no destiny now – because your universe was never meant to exist in the first place."

"I fail to see your point," he snaps at last, losing patience with the scientific runaround. "If you are from the universe from which we splintered, what is your purpose here, with us?"

Q raises his hands in a shrug. "Just remember, what is that expression you have…don't shoot the messenger? After all, I am not responsible for this spectacular debacle."

"Spit. It. _Out_ ," he snarls.

A melodramatic sigh. "Very _well_ , Captain, if you insist." Q assumes a mockery of military attention, eyes on the bulkhead behind the command chair and an attitude of sheer boredom infusing his voice. "Captain James T. Kirk, I regret to inform you that your universe has been deemed a fluke of Time-distortion by the members of the Q Continuum. It is, therefore, considered to be superfluous in the scheme of multi-universal Time, and based on these grounds is scheduled for immediate destruction to restore balance to the space-time continuum. Are we done here, gentlemen?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Two  
> (1) The Gamesters of Triskelion is a TOS episode, no details of which are referenced in this fic  
> (2) I have no real evidence to back this up, but because again I like continuity, I'd like to think Trelane in TOS's The Squire of Gothos was a very young Q  
> (3) If you're not a TNG fan and don't know who Q is, you probably can continue to read the story without needing to know. If you're interested, watch some of the TNG and VOY episodes in which he appears. You probably will either hate him or love to hate him.  
> (4) Though there are many theories out there about the relationship between TOS and AOS, I choose to abide by the Splinter Universe theory, as it prevents erasure of the original universe; that's the canon you'll always see in my fics.  
> (5) This last line is a paraphrased quote from the ST:2009 movie; it belongs to those writers and is not my content.


	3. Chapter Three

**_Chapter Three_ **

He's a pretty easygoing man, in general. You have to be level-headed, as a starship captain. Even-keeled, as the old saying goes. Able to roll with punches, sometimes literally. Able to take a joke with the best of them, and able to dish out as good as you get. Lenient when you can, hard when you can't, and continually patient through it all. Quick tempers are a death sentence, in deep space, and when you're responsible for anywhere between six and eight hundred lives, there's just no room for error there.

But most beings they encounter learn very, very quickly that he does not take kindly to threats against his ship.

As in, no one threatens the _Enterprise_ twice, and very few do it once and live to tell the tale.

Q's lips twitch at his expression, in an almost human-looking gesture of amusement, and he backs away with a _laissez-faire_ gesture of upraised hands.

"So predictable, you humans' instinctive reach for violence to hide your fear, James. I was hoping for better from you, you know."

"And I'm always hoping for a day when we encounter an advanced species who's actually _civil_ instead of arrogant omnipotent assholes, but we don't always get what we want, now do we?" He notes with tactical interest the light of genuine amusement that flickers across Q's expression at the salvo. Interesting. "Now explain yourself. Omnipotent or not, I will _kill_ you or die trying if you lay a finger on this ship."

"Amusing as that ineffective activity might be, friend James, I rather think your crew has seen you depart this world in a violent fashion one too many times in recent months. You do have an appalling tendency toward self-destruction, you know."

"I'm not hearing an explanation, Q." He ignores the ripple of dismayed conversation that's being whispered about behind him, focusing on the much bigger problem.

"Yes, yes, that's quite another story. So. If it is explanations you want, then explanations you shall have. But I daresay you grow weary of listening ears, Captain; shall we not retire to a more comfortable locale for this last Conversation of the Damned?"

He inhales sharply, blinking, as the _Enterprise_ 's pristine white and silver Bridge vanishes suddenly, without so much as a sound or flicker, no feeling of displacement or transportation whatsoever. He can only assume the entire construct has left his own ship safe for the moment, as Q has no reason right now to harm it; perhaps this is merely in his own head, or in a phase shift or pocket universe – but whatever it is, it seems quite real, and that, with an insanely seamless transition.

Whatever this Continuum is that Q professes to be part of, their powers must be unimaginable.

Strangely enough, he finds himself in a lavish room resembling an old-fashioned, ornately-furnished library. He's literally never seen so many antique books before in his life: shelf after shelf, floor to ceiling, wall to wall – all beckoning him with their promise of adventure and exploration and new knowledge. The smell of _real_ books and ink and leather and paper assaults his senses, enough to almost send him reeling with its heady atmosphere, and despite the situation he finds himself grinning, fingers itching to explore the closest set of shelves. (1)

Then a tall figure clad in a bizarre argyle sweater-vest over a collared shirt and gray trousers comes around the corner of a shelving unit, dark eyes lighting on him with a small gleam of relief.

He doesn't quite get his snort of laughter muffled in time. Looks like their demi-god has a penchant for ancient cosplay or something.

Spock's eyebrows twist into a grimace, and he yanks a pair of old-fashioned, black-rimmed eyeglasses off his head with enough alacrity that the fragile frames twist to bits in his hands.

"Tsk," a voice observes from the next aisle. "Vulcans. They never do play well with others."

If Spock looks like he's donned some cheap intergalactic All Hallow's Eve hipster costume, Jim really doesn't want to know what this nutcase decided he should be wearing, and so he settles for carefully looking only at their resident Omnipotent, who is lounging near a large wooden table littered with open volumes. Q's own ridiculous outfit includes a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves held up by rubber bands, spectacles attached to a chain around his neck, and an enormous name-tag that very superfluously says BE QUIET.

Honestly, he can very much see why the Old Kirk didn't have any patience with the child-in-a-god's-body. The novelty has worn off _really_ quickly. "If you're done playing dress-up, I'd like to know what you did with my ship and where we are?" he demands, emphatically unamused.

"We are nowhere, and everywhere. But do sit down, James." Q gestures to the conference table.

"I'll stand."

"You'll sit."

Another of those ridiculous migraine-inducing flashes of light (obviously, melodrama is the preferred method of the Q) and he feels the creaking leather of a conference chair beneath him; he's been summarily dumped in the seat like a wandering child into his crib.

Spock, settling in disgruntled aloofness beside him, apparently has not escaped unscathed either.

"Coffee, Captain?" A steaming cup appears out of nowhere before him, and he does a double take as the instant assault on his senses informs him eagerly that it is _real_ coffee, not the god-awful caffeinated sewer water the replicators continually try to produce aboard ship.

He wavers for a moment, then glances up in open skepticism from the cup to the amused face of the Omnipotent across the table.

"Really, Captain. If I chose to kill you, it would not be by so uninteresting a method as poisoning," Q says dryly.

"You'll understand if I have a hard time believing that," he snorts, but takes a cautious sip anyway. It's obvious the guy could obliterate them with a snap of his fingers if he wants to. _Ergo_ , obviously he doesn't.

Jim has to find out why he hasn't, if they have any hope of staying that hand of judgment.

After Jim doesn't fall over choking to death or something, Spock sniffs his own cup, and then his eyes widen barely perceptibly over the rim before he takes a quick sip. "Vulcan spice tea," he murmurs under his breath at Jim's quizzical look. "It is…extremely rare, now, in a non-replicated format."

"Understandably," he returns softly.

A languid wave from where Q sprawls half across another chair, watching their interplay with amusement. "Oh, _do_ say it's fascinating, Commander. I have been waiting for that."

Spock regards the deity over the cup with the same look Jim has seen him give a particularly revolting specimen of flesh-eating bacteria in the Medical labs.

"Touchy, isn't he?"

"Pretty sure you're not going to find me any more cooperative if you don't start explaining yourself. I'm not a patient man, Q. Something you supposedly should know."

Q sighs, sending the pages on a nearby book fluttering restlessly. "It is not my doing, James."

"So you said. I don't care whose _doing_ it is. Explain."

"Ugh, you are disappointingly single-faceted. Very well, Captain." Q snaps his fingers, and the books vanish from the table on the instant. "I take it that you do at least have a working knowledge of the fundamental principles of inter-dimensional and theoretical physics?"

"Considering we've been embroiled in ongoing living proof of the multi-verse since the day of my birth, yeah," he says dryly. "I wrote one of my theses on the hypothetical possibility of tracing an inverted reality back to its point of creation via a white hole, provided a starship could survive the event horizon and reach Warp Thirty-Two at the threshold."

Q blinks. "What a ridiculously stupid idea."

He rolls his eyes. "Thank you for confirming my theory, Mr. Omnipotent. Even us poor mortals are capable of doing the calculations involved in advanced theoretical physics. What exactly does this have to do with your little Justice Contingent saying we're supposed to be terminated?"

The spluttering he receives over his flippant dismissal of what is likely a group of entities powerful enough to reshape the universe at will is highly satisfying.

"Also, you're sitting across from the species who founded some of the most advanced science academies in the Federation. Pretty sure together we can handle anything you can dish out."

Q rolls his eyes, swinging his legs back to the floor in one lightning-fast gesture. "Your arrogance is utterly astounding, friend James. But that is a completely different affair. Let us assume, for sake of argument and my personal sanity, that you can even come close to comprehending the true limitless power of the universe around you. You are then aware that time is infinite, but space is not."

"Time is merely a measurement, a mortal construct utilized to measure space in a linear manner," Spock interjects, with an eyebrow frown. "It does not exist, in the most technical sense of the term."

"To you mortals, yes, it is merely your, what do you call it, a fourth dimension?" Q sighs, waving a tolerant hand. "But in reality it is so much more than the simple construct your little brains have conjured up to explain the inexplicable to yourselves. The fabric of space-time is pliant, ever-changing – not one singular, set course of events which you mortals seem to believe must happen without fail. It can be manipulated, duplicated, stretched, looped, bent, distorted, even torn, and the consequences are _disastrous_."

Fair enough. They still don't know enough about time, time travel, or the consequences of it to mess with it safely. Something tells him it's not really meant for humans to know, or those disastrous consequences would become even more disastrous in very short order.

"Throughout the history of the universes, men have been changing what was first Destined to be in the Space-Time Continuum. Your historical tales of the human Adam and Eve, destroying the original perfect world; Terra's Third World War, pushing First Contact back another seventy-five years for your species; your own experience with Nero; the mirror universe of my own Primary Universe, in which your Original counterpart wreaked psychological havoc with the Imperial Galactic Empire; countless others with which I will not bore you and shall not tempt your curiosity. The fact remains that you mortals – you humans, especially, for some reason – keep tampering with Destiny, and indeed you always have, throughout the history of the multiverse."

"You said it yourself, Q, we're human, or at least the most foolish of us are," he amends wryly, glancing sideways at his First, "and we can't be expected to behave according to some unseen force's mandates."

"Just so," Q agrees. "And we of the Continuum believe in permitting mortals the free choice of will – to an extent. But at some point in time, there comes a place where Destiny must be righted, the dial reset, the scales rebalanced. When the universes have swung so wildly from their Original Intent, outside forces must step in."

"Illogical," Spock states calmly. "Your statement is itself a paradox. Free will cannot be permitted only to an extent; when a boundary is imposed upon freedom, it ceases to be free. By its very nature, free will must be an absolute; when it becomes less, it is no longer by definition freedom."

"The powers and forces of the universe are not bound by your perception of logic and justice, Spock of Vulcan," Q retorts, tone sharp with an icy edge. "We do not answer to mortals in our balancing of the scales, for you are utterly incapable of understanding what must happen to keep the universe from degenerating into total anarchy. Your most basic of scientific laws state that all things left to their own devices tend toward chaos, toward disorder; how then do you think the universe _remains_ in order but by our interference?"

Spock is silent.

"While Time is infinite, space is not, gentlemen. In the multiverse, there do exist a finite number of universes that can be permitted to occupy the same…real estate, shall we say, in the space-time continuum. There comes a point where the possibility of universes overlapping and interphasing, the risk of temporal anomalies weakening the continuum and literally _unraveling the fabric of time_ , becomes too great – and the process must be halted. If we were to permit to continue every parallel universe that sprang into existence with each choice a mortal makes, then eventually two of those incalculable septillions of universes would overlap and breach the continuum. The immediate rupture would completely destroy the multiverse and everything in it. There are enough anomalies as it is, this you know yourselves from your little space adventures. It must stop somewhere."

"You're saying you have an overpopulation problem," Jim suddenly interjects, a little incredulously, but it does make a kind of twisted sense. "The more people you have living in cramped quarters, the greater the probability that violence will result, and the greater probability that serious harm will occur."

Q regards him thoughtfully. "Correct. Preventing universes from colliding and breaching space-time is a major part of the Continuum's intervention in the affairs of mortals. Without constant weeding out of the lesser important universes, eventually the fabric of space-time itself would rupture under the strain of containing so many."

Silence, broken only by the rustling of ghostly pages in the apparently-deserted library. Jim finally shoves his lukewarm coffee away and then looks across the table at the Omnipotent, who has apparently finished his explanation. Which really wasn't much of an explanation.

"And you, apparently, have decided that our universe is one of those that must be weeded out?"

"Correct," Q agrees, far too cheerfully. "As if the dear old Ambassador hadn't done enough damage by letting Romulus burn like a birthday candle in that supernova, he then goes and creates a new splinter universe with that red matter. I mean, really, the man is a ridiculous under-achiever."

Jim hears Spock's controlled inhale that means if Q were a mortal and his First Officer a human, there'd likely be a person-shaped hole in one of the nearby shelving units.

The Omnipotent prattles onward, blithely unaware (or just uncaring). "You were a mistake, Captain. Your father was never meant to die at your birth, you were never meant to grow up as a 'Fleet orphan – sorry, just a next-thing-to-orphan, was it? Hm? Ah well. At any rate, Nero was never meant to destroy Vulcan and the majority of her inhabitants, Section 31 was never meant to grow so rapidly out of hand, and you – _you_ , friend James! Subverting the natural order, and coming back from the very dead?" A finger waggles at him, accompanied by an admonishing tsk. "Really, Captain."

"If you have a problem with me, then have it out with me. But –"

"Ah, ah, you are a package deal, Captain. And besides, your precious Ambassador is quite as much to blame, I assure you." Q leans forward slightly. "You – all of you – were never meant to live this life, James. You and all you know are a fluke, nothing more. Vulcan, surely you see the logic in this?"

"I see no logic in exterminating a universe in its entirety due to the actions done by only some of its inhabitants, be it two or two thousand," Spock replies, and Jim envies him his apparent calm in the face of this madness. He himself is still trying to reel his brain in from racing away in ten different directions, trying to find a strategy here.

"You are a splinter universe, not even a mere shadow of the one destined to exist by the Continuum," Q insists, scowling as if he honestly cannot believe they are not simply accepting his self-professed explanation. "You are not the James Kirk of Earth and Spock of Vulcan which Destiny intended to exist."

"You're dead right, I'm not your James Kirk!" he shouts, heedless of the fact that he's supposedly in a library and there's half a dozen shhh-ing noises coming at him from somewhere buried in the creepy shelves now. "I am a different man – not a better one, but I am _different_ – and that does not give you the right to destroy my universe, just because you and your precious Continuum think we're a fluke of Time distortion! I didn't save my world and my ship twice over just to have _you_ decide it isn't worthy to exist!"

Q's almost bored expression almost makes him completely lose it, the scarlet haze of anger clouding his vision momentarily, until Spock's firm hand on his arm yanks him back into the moment with calming finality. It will do no one any good for him to lose control here. If he is to pull a win out of this scenario, he cannot go about it the way he has been, emotionally and head-on.

Deep breath.

Focus.

"You speak of free will, of the rights of sentient beings, Q. What gives _you_ the _right_ to decide my universe is unworthy to exist?" he finally asks, slowly resuming his seat.

Q remains standing, but begins to pace fretfully in a circle, gesticulating wildly to prove his point. "Psh, this is not about _right_ , James; this is about practicality. Throughout history, mortals have taken care of this problem themselves on a smaller scale, usually through disgustingly barbaric practices of violence. World wars, nuclear devastation, genocides, and other atrocious acts indicative of your primitive states. Our decisions are no different; they simply must be made, for the good of many."

"That didn't answer my question, Q." He looks long and hard at the being across from him. "You came to me for a reason, you've spent a ridiculous amount of energy telling me about this for a reason - you are _still_ trying to explain this, for a reason."

Q is oddly, almost disturbingly, silent.

"Why me. Why us?" He asks quietly. "Why did you decide to come to us? Why warn us at all, even? Why not just eliminate us without our knowledge?"

The Omnipotent finally turns toward him, and snaps his fingers over the table.

A projection screen appears, a holo-image of a barely-familiar face, aristocratic bearing and appearance facing off against Q himself in a private briefing room that looks slightly familiar and yet not, a starship design he's never seen.

"Captain Jean-Luc Picard, many decades into your futures," Q explains briefly, eyes flicking over to Spock. (2)

_"Do you not have someone else to vent your obnoxious energy upon, Q?" Annoyance rings clearly in the elder man's cultured voice._

_"Of course I could turn my attentions to your people, Mon Capitaine. But you've always frowned upon that, you know. I never will forgive you for not letting me join you as a member of your crew."_

_"My heart is breaking for your damaged ego," Picard replies dryly, ignoring the wounded look he receives._

_After a few minutes of awkward silence, in which the Omnipotent tries unsuccessfully to distract the seasoned captain from his work, the being sighs dramatically and rises, transforming himself into the drab clothing and sharp features of a Romulan official._

_"Then I suppose I shall take my leave. I have an old friend of yours to check up on, Jean-Luc," he said, slyly glancing back over his shoulder. "The Continuum is, shall we say, slightly concerned with the volatile possibilities that could result from his recent activities."_

_Picard looks up, takes in the attire of his conversant in an instant. "You are not going to interfere with –"_

_"I, interfere? You surprise me, Jean-Luc." Q looks highly miffed. "I have no such motives. Merely that, in a word, I find his ideals and this ridiculous notion he has to unify Vulcan and Romulus to be simply…fascinating."_

_Picard is silent for a moment. With a smirk, Q turns away, but pauses when the cultivated accent sounds behind him._

_"Q…he has lost everything. Surely even you would not be so heartless as to –"_

_With a small flash of light, the Romulan clothing is gone, and so is the Omnipotent. But his voice remains in the small briefing room, falling laughingly through the air._

The scene and the projection screen disappear silently. Jim side-eyes his XO, who only raises a slightly puzzled eyebrow at him.

"I could have prevented the Romulan star from going nova," Q clarifies, shrugging easily. "I did not, and therefore underestimated the lengths a desperate Vulcan might go to in an ill-thought-out attempt to save an unsalvageable situation. The poor fool never did learn how to gamble as well as his deceased captain."

"Wait, so you're warning us our universe is about to be dissolved, out of some weird sense of Omnipotent guilt?" he asks, incredulous.

Q snorts, his sober air dissipating as if it had never fallen. "Certainly not!"

"Because that's really what it looks like."

"Rest assured, friend James, I am completely incapable of feeling guilt. Unlike the Galaxy's Most Repressive species here, the Q are _literally_ unable to generate and feel emotion."

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Right."

Q glares at him. "I assure you, I have already completely obliterated four such splinter universes as yours, Captain. I merely hesitate to destroy the splinter universe which still contains remnants of the original without at least explaining to you why it is about to happen out of simple fair play. And that is _all_ , you infuriating _child_."

"So, infuriating isn't an emotion, then?" He inspects a hangnail as the spluttering across the table increases for a second. "Want to weigh in here, Galaxy's Most Repressive?"

"Captain, I do not find it wise to antagonize the entity which could –"

"O- _kay_ , thank you for that very sound advice, Commander. So, Q. Get to the point." He folds his arms, and looks pointedly across the table. "Why exactly. Are you here. Because something tells me you really don’t give a damn about fair play."

Q leans forward and lowers his voice, as if dramatically intimating they might have eavesdroppers. "Because, Captain. I've been authorized to, and against my better judgment I am _willing_ to, offer you a chance."

Riiiight. "A chance?"

"A chance to save your world, James Tiberius Kirk – a chance to prove you are a better captain than that which Destiny ordained to exist; and that because of that, you and your universe deserve to remain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Three  
> (1) TOS Kirk's real-paper booklove is canon, as seen in TWOK and Where No Man Has Gone Before. That's one characteristic I've chosen to remain constant in both universes.
> 
> (2) For non-TNG fans, this particular Q is from the time period of Captain Picard and Captain Janeway, the time period of the Enterprise-D and beyond. Ambassador Spock was, at this time, on Romulus, undercover in an attempt to gradually push Romulus toward a unification with Vulcan. It was during this same TNG time period that Ambassador Sarek was diagnosed with a fatal disease. During the TNG episode Unification, Picard visited Sarek just before his death, and then went to Romulus undercover to find Spock and ascertain his intentions on Romulus for the Federation, during which mission Picard shared a mind-meld with Spock that permitted him to see Sarek's last moments. It was also during the latter part of this TNG time period that Captain Kirk was rescued from the Nexus in Generations but died the same day, while Spock was still on Romulus and several years before the events of ST:2009.


	4. Chapter Four

**_Chapter Four_ **

"And why, exactly, would you give us this 'chance'?"

"More importantly, why would you give _us_ this chance?" Jim echoes his XO's equally skeptical words.

"To answer your query first, Captain…" A snap of fingers, and an old-fashioned freestanding blackboard appears behind the Omnipotent. A piece of chalk pops into existence in his hand, and the next moment a series of mathematical scribbles and diagrams sketches itself into place on the board. "You are perhaps unaware that in each Primary Universe which exists to anchor the Multiverse, there exist certain…fixed points, if you will. Certain universal constants, which appear throughout, no matter the changes which may occur."

"You're talking about Destiny," Jim says flatly, ignoring Spock's small noise of disdain from beside him.

Q nods, applauding briefly as to a prize pupil. "Quite so. In each universe, there exist specific predetermined anchors to ensure the continued stability of the space-time continuum. Certain keystone people or events that, should something unintended happen to them, will change the course of history forever. Your parent universe's James Kirk discovered this with a woman named Edith Keeler, your Ambassador Spock discovered it with the destruction of Romulus's primary sun, and those are merely two examples closest to you. I could name a hundred more, in as many universes."

"What you are suggesting is an alarming concept of the unexplored theoretical multi-verse," Spock says, in that particular tone that indicates he's becoming interested despite himself.

Jim half-turns toward him. "Alarming, how so?"

"By extrapolation, Q, you suggest that if one were to learn the constants in these universes, one would be able to manipulate time itself by targeting these key events and these events only." Spock glances at him, eyebrow raised. "Were one of the species in the galaxy ever able to control the unpredictable nature of time-travel and inter-dimensional shifting, that is a most alarming amount of power to accord any species."

"Why do you think you mortals, for all your curiosity and reckless pursuit of the next frontier in the name of Science, have not yet discovered a way to control more than four dimensions?" Q asks dryly. "It will not happen. We would trust no species with that kind of power, I assure you."

That's a little bit of a relief, honestly.

"None of your mortal species is able to control more than four dimensions, and none of them are able to control both Time _and_ any of the upper dimensions. The Metrons are able to control Time, but none of the upper dimensions; your Organians, can manipulate two of the upper dimensions but they have no concept of Time." Q gestures grandly. "The universes must remain in balance, gentlemen. The process is not a simple one, not even for the Q."

"Fascinating."

Jim resists the urge to face-palm. Trust Spock to get his geek on when they still haven't got answers about why they're on the execution list.

"You were saying, about Destiny and universal anchors…?" He prompts the Omnipotent, tapping his fingers restlessly on the chair arm.

"So I was. In short, Captain, you and your First Officer are two of those universal constants," Q informs him, in a tone of voice that clearly says _Universal Constants_ is synonymous with _Sisyphean pains in the Omnipotent ass_.

"It is not logical that two people of two vastly different worlds should be, as you put it, universally constant to anchor all universes, and that crucial events of history should hinge upon them. The odds against those two forces discovering such a fact, locating each other in the galaxy at the proper times, and cooperating to enact the events you mention, are nearly astronomical."

"And yet, here you are, gentlemen," is Q's pointed reply.

"You'll forgive my First Officer his skepticism," Jim staves off another protest against Destiny with a quick gesture, "but I have to say for once I agree with him. You can't seriously expect us to believe that the two of us are so important to the entire universe that you came to _us_ over this."

"No? You do not believe you could be so crucial to your universe, in any universe?"

"Honestly? No. Not really." Jim shrugs, a little uneasily. That kind of arrogance died with him in the warp core. "There are a lot of people who've sacrificed a lot more for this universe than I have."

Q waves a dismissive hand. "Completely irrelevant."

"Anyone could have done what we've done."

"Yes, yes, that is quite true," Q agrees. "Anyone could have. But the reality of the matter, James Kirk, is that no one else _did_. In any universe, including all your parallel ones."

His throat goes dry.

The blackboard morphs into a vid-screen on the instant, and an image flicks into view; an _Enterprise_ , broken and battered, her brand-new nacelles shattered and lifeless, no more than plasma-charred debris floating in the deathly stillness of space.

"In this splinter universe, events leading up to the Battle of Vulcan remained the same." Q assumes a lecturing position, gesturing with a pointer he's pulled out of nowhere. "But the _wunderkind_ didn't snatch you and Hikaru Sulu from thin air at the last second in that heroic transporter save, and your Vulcan Acting Captain did not extricate the High Council of Vulcan from the planet's surface in time. The _Enterprise_ remained in orbit too long trying to retrieve you, and got sucked into the edges of the gravity well before the tiny black hole collapsed, taking Vulcan and most of the wreckage of your 'Fleet with it."

He can basically feel his face drain of color. Even years later, that career-catapulting failure will haunt him for the rest of his life.

The screen changes, and he fights down a sudden wave of nausea. Fields of half-rotted grain, festering in an open sun – he can almost smell the death and decay and the pure evil that the visual suddenly resurrects like an undead soul.

"In this universe, radiation from the _Kelvin_ warp engine explosion caused your infant immune system even more medical issues than you fought during adolescence, leaving you far too weak to survive Tarsus IV thirteen years later. Your Commander, after Captain Pike's capture, led the _Enterprise_ in retreat back to the Laurentian system to rendezvous with the remainder of the 'Fleet. Nero destroyed Earth and her entire Sol system in his rampage before moving on to carve a path through the Federation's most crucial members." (1)

He very, very carefully does not look anywhere but straight ahead, because right now he's on his last nerve and he just cannot deal with seeing whatever reaction Spock's having to the previously-unmentioned Tarsus bombshell. It's going to be a _super_ -fun debriefing.

Q continues, mercilessly pulling up a picture of a Vulcan desert at evening, the sands glowing like amber under the light of an ochre-hued sunset. Spock closes his eyes briefly.

"In this universe, Commander, your mother died in difficult childbirth. Never truly knowing why you were different from other Vulcans, and never having the benefit of learning about humanity in general, you never joined Starfleet and were rejected from both the Vulcan Science Academy and the acolytes of Gol for a hopeless lack of emotional control. When Nero appeared, he met no resistance from an unprepared Vulcan council, and because Cadet Kirk was grounded on academic suspension the _Enterprise_ warped straight into a trap along with the rest of the 'Fleet."

He's had enough and he's quite sure Spock has too, judging from the tension radiating from his First, but Q continues, pointing at another image – a massive space battle.

"In this universe, events were identical until Nero was above Earth and you two beamed aboard the _Narada_. Your Montgomery Scott did his best to beam you into the cargo bay, but he beamed you straight into a squad of Romulan guards. You were both killed upon beaming in, and Terra imploded twenty minutes later. After six months of his deathly rampage, the rest of the galaxy drew together – Cardassian, Tellarite, Klingon, Romulan, Orion, Betazoid, and all remaining Humanoids, anyone left after his reign of destruction – in one final attempt to defeat him." Q stops, and folds his arms, looking pointedly at both of them. "They failed. Two Klingon warbirds, a Cardassian freighter carrying dark matter, and a Romulan science vessel performed a suicide crash into the _Narada_ 's cargo bay, triggering the detonation of the red matter the ship carried. The ensuing black hole, became the largest anomaly your universe has ever seen, and literally tore the fabric of the galaxy apart, engulfing the entire universe in a matter of _nine months_. We never even had to touch that universe, they obliterated themselves."

"Enough," Jim manages to find his voice after several more images flash up on the screen in preparation for the Omnipotent to continue. He really doesn't need a visual re-enactment of Chris Pike's death and his own to get the point, thanks very much.

"No, it is _not_ enough," Q replies, though the screen and its visual aids disappear in a small pouf of smoke. "I could give you countless examples in which parallel universes of yours have destroyed themselves because you two – the universal anchors for this portion of the space-time continuum – failed to deliver."

"And yet, in this universe, you will destroy us."

"Because we haven't yet destroyed ourselves as you had hoped, saving you the trouble," Jim finishes, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his gut over the idea that somewhere out there exists a Destiny so cruel as to consciously let these things take their course, knowing the inevitable outcome.

"Oh, do not take it personally, friend James! If it is any consolation, of all the flukes we have observed, your universe is by far the most in balance." Q pats him on the shoulder in commiseration. "But all universes are subject to this principle."

"That they must prove they are worthy to exist by some parameters set by your Continuum, or be extinguished without thought as to their inhabitants?"

"Would you prefer we select at _random_ those to eliminate, not based upon any worthy characteristics, Spock?"

"Negative."

"Then the process of permitting them to prove their worth is, in a word…logical."

Spock almost visibly winces.

"What do you expect us to do, then? We've had over three years since Nero to prove ourselves. I freaking died for this ship to prove myself. That's not good enough for your precious Continuum?" he demands.

"Do not expect us to judge your ridiculous lives by such an inefficient method as Time, James. And besides, dear captain," Q continues, giving him a longsuffering look, "do not flatter yourself. Yours is not the only universe we have to monitor, for galaxies' sake. You are simply next on the list right now."

"The extermination list. And you call us mortals barbaric."

"Mm, yes, you would know a little something about extermination lists, wouldn't you?"

He smiles thinly, refusing to let his anger rise to the barb. "I would. And yours isn't the first list I've been on. Frankly, yours is far less frightening."

A gleam of what looks like grudging respect. "Touché, Captain."

"But do go on, Q, I'm all ears. This chance you're offering us? What kind of strings are going to be attached to that?"

Q looks highly offended. "Strings? There are no _strings_ , James, have you listened to nothing I've said? You are being put on trial, as an anchor constant of this universe. If you pass the tests deemed crucial of a universal anchor constant, then you will save your universe."

"And if I fail, you'll destroy everything in my universe. Where is the justice in that?"

"No one said this was about justice. This is about _survival_ , Captain James I-don't-believe-in-no-win-scenarios Kirk, and if you wish to survive you will at least attempt to cooperate!"

He flicks a quick look at Spock, and he receives a barely-perceptible nod in return. Then he turns back to the figure across the table, and shakes his head, slumping back into his chair with a gesture of bored resignation. "No deal."

"Deal? What deal?" Q towers over them, hands thrown up in the air in exasperation.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're offering me nothing other than non-interference if I can beat Destiny itself. If I lose against what's already been pre-ordained, then my universe is annihilated. If I beat it, literally nothing happens, things just go about like they were. I don't call that a good bargain, Q, and I don't believe Destiny is something you can beat at its own game. Again, no deal. You might as well destroy us now, before we have time to panic about it."

Q's eyes go comically wide. "Have you taken leave of your infantile human senses? After all I have told you, you are just going to sit there and accept your fate?"

"After all you've told me?" he snorts derisively. "Let's see, what have you told me – that we're a fluke of Time, that my success in defeating Nero was more predestined luck than skill, that I'm never going to measure up to your Prime Universe, and that Starfleet chose me as captain because Destiny made sure there literally wasn't anybody else?" Blue eyes roll toward the domed ceiling. "You haven't told me anything I didn't already know, Q."

Beside him, he feels Spock stiffen. "Captain, you –"

"Not now," he growls under his breath, because he really doesn't want to hear what, if anything, Spock disagrees with him on. "I'm well aware that my life isn't conforming to your precious Destiny's intentions," he shoots back at a still-stunned Q, "and that the real reason I became captain in the first place is because Starfleet is built on politics. I was a pretty face for the recruitment posters, a famous name for diplomatic functions, and a convenient scapegoat if something went wrong – and when it all went to hell a year later, that's exactly what happened.

"But I've paid for those mistakes, paid for them with my life and the lives of my crew. I'm still trying like hell to learn from that. If you thought you were going to break me down by telling me how messed up my universe is? You're going to need to try a hell of a lot harder, Q."

Q finally finds his voice, evidently, but Jim sees with a gleam of interest that the Omnipotent seems to be thoroughly taken aback at this turn of events. Interesting. "Then you are giving up, James? Sitting on the sidelines while your universe simply implodes? Admitting there _is_ such a thing as a no-win scenario?"

"I don't say there's any such thing," he replies, eyes hardening. "But sometimes the only way out of a no-win situation is to change the parameters of the situation's rules."

Q cocks an interested eyebrow at him, silently beckoning him to continue.

He shakes his head with a gesture of dismissal, but eyes Q's reaction from his peripheral. "Forget it. Just get us back to the _Enterprise_ so we can say goodbye to people before you and your pretty little Continuum destroy our universe."

Q frowns, obviously contemplating him for a long moment. Then, "Your refusal to even make an effort to salvage your universe is a possibility I did not foresee, James," he says at last, and Jim is positive now that he hears slight uncertainty in the tone. Obviously Q is unaccustomed to being crossed, unused to finding someone he can't manipulate or at least get to fight back.

Fortunately for them, Jim grew up all his life manipulating people. Why would a demi-god be any different?

"Q, give me one good reason why I should? If Destiny has dictated that the James Kirk of your universe is the Perfect Ideal, then she's already messed up my own universe long ago. Why should I bother to try to salvage an already disadvantaged universe by some ridiculous test you set up to see if I'll meet the Almighty-Standard-of-Captaincy you seem to have written in the Continuum Bible or something somewhere?"

Q blinks in obvious surprise. "You do not care enough for your universe to even make the attempt?"

"Oh, I'll attempt it all right," he admits, "because it's the only thing to do. But you can't expect me to make it a very… _entertaining_ attempt. You know." He salutes his opponent with his nearly-empty coffee mug before finishing the last drink in a calculatedly casual move.

A suspicious gleam has sprung up in the Omnipotent's eye. "Elucidate, my dear captain," he says, snapping his fingers and producing a comfortable easy chair to sit in.

"Well." Jim shrugs, pretending disinterest. "Just from the fact that you've wasted over an hour telling us what amounts to the same thing over and over, I get the vibe that you don't really want to see us destroyed without a fair chance."

"Again, do not flatter yourself," is the dry reply.

"But I'm not; I think it's galling you that we're taking this as well as we are. Don't you omnipotent beings thrive on causing panic and high emotions? Don't you get your entertainment from battles of the mind? Isn't it true that the more brilliant the brain, the greater the need for unusual distraction? Isn't that why you're _here_ , warning us, instead of just snapping your fingers and snuffing us out of existence from the safety of your own universe?"

Q's feet, which had been propped lazily on the edge of the conference table, slowly lower to the carpeted floor.

He presses on, smiling predatorily. "Wouldn't it make it more… _entertaining_ , for you to watch, if we put up a decent fight against your so-called impossible scenario with Destiny? Is all you really want for me to just wave the white flag and accept the Inevitable; or do you want me to say _bring it on_ and fight you when you actually let me have it?"

Q's eyes glint, and the library disappears around them, dissolving into the familiar crisp, clean whiteness of the _Enterprise_ Bridge.

Jim ignores his startled crew's exclamations of relief, and focuses on the being in front of him, now garbed in some ridiculous Terran ancient military regalia, ornately-gleaming sword extended with the handle towards him. A small table stands before his chair, upon which rest a vintage-looking inkwell and blank paper. He eyes the combination with utter cluelessness, until Q speaks.

"State your terms, Captain, and I shall consider them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Four  
> (1) While I think Tarsus IV is far overused as a cliché and plot device, it fits with what I have here and so I'm (very cautiously) using it. It will be no more than a minor reference, however. While it's never actually mentioned on-screen in the AOS, it's canon in TOS (see Conscience of the King).


	5. Chapter Five

**_Chapter Five_ **

"My terms. Really now, Q." Ignoring the Omnipotent entirely, he moves up the dais to the command center, where his very relieved-looking helmsman has obviously been holding down the fort after his two superiors vanished into nowhere. "Gotten a taste for the chair, have you, Mr. Sulu?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, _sir_! Captain, you just disappeared right into thin air."

"No traces anywhere on scanners, no energy displacement, no transporter signature. There was nothing, Keptin," Chekov echoes suspiciously from the Science console, where he's clearly giving Q a very, very cautious once-over.

"Yes, yes, you don't have to tell me. Steer clear of the weirdo with the sword on your way back to your console, okay? Q, for Pete's sake, dispense with the melodrama." He flops into his chair, noting that Spock is very _not_ -subtly remaining within neck-pinching distance of the deity before them, like that's actually going to work when it all comes down to it. "At ease, Commander."

Spock's eyebrow clearly says _as if_.

He shrugs, resigned, and turns his attention back toward the somewhat stymied Omnipotent, who appears to be eliminating the military garb from existence with a hand-wave of disappointment. "My terms, Q? What makes you believe I have any? Or for that matter, any motive in continuing what's proving to be an increasingly pointless discussion?"

Q's eyebrow does its best impression of a Vulcan. "You intimated that we might be able to reach an agreement, friend James. Are you reneging on this gentleman's agreement?"

"A, I'm no gentleman." He hears a couple of awkward coughs and one not well-disguised snort from somewhere behind him. "And B," he continues loudly, glaring in the direction of the loudest disturbance, "I never agreed to anything. I am done making bargains with the Devil, Q."

"Are you, Captain?"

His skin crawls at the tone, but he stands his ground. "I'm not going to play your little game without the right motivation, Q."

Q's eyes turn dark, glittering in the bright lights of the Bridge. "Well, then. We might start with the lives of your crew, Captain. _And_ your pretty little ship."

His clenched hands mask the lurching of his nerves at the veiled but very real danger as he forces indifference into his voice. "You're about to annihilate my entire _universe_ , Q. Your threat is redundant."

"Is it, really?" Q smiles, and it's the look of a predator advancing without taking a step. "I could turn your ship upside down in seconds with death and destruction unlike anything you have ever seen, Captain, and that includes the genocide you so conveniently have neglected to disclose. I could take control of your commanding officers and commandeer you into Romulan space to trigger the biggest Federation war the galaxy has seen in decades. Or I could turn this ship into a flying bio-weapon, and send you into Earth's spacedock to infect it and all neighboring planets. Or," and he leans forward into Jim's personal space, ignoring the horror-struck faces of the less-informed Bridge crew, "I could simply take your crew, one by one, and subject them to horrors you cannot even imagine, Kirk. And you would be left, _alone_ , to watch your precious ship become a deadly weapon against some helpless Federation colony once I am through. Now." Dark eyes meet blue. "Is that sufficient incentive for you to _play my little game_ , as you put it?"

His jaw clenches. "I will destroy this ship before I let any of those things happen, Q."

"Really?" The being bounces backward, a raucous laugh jarring the tense silence of the Bridge. "And how say your precious crew to that, I wonder?"

"We say go to hell," Uhura says dryly from behind him.

He whips his chair around to see that Spock's already got the self-destruct sequence up on the screen at her station, finger hovering over the button. He's just waiting for Jim's nod to start the sequence with secondary authorization.

"Computer, initiate self-destruct sequence, secondary authorization Spock, First Officer, beta-one-one-zero-one."

 _Secondary voice authorization recognized. Destruct sequence initiated_.

Chekov and Sulu stare wide-eyed at each other, even as a ripple of uneasy whispers flickers across the Bridge – but no one moves, and no one says a thing. They're made of sterner stuff than that, and he's more proud of all of them every day.

 _Primary authorization required,_ the computer chirps expectantly.

But before he can speak, laughter breaks the tense silence, a bizarrely genuine peal of genuine amusement from the figure currently standing in front of his command chair. "Well played, _mon capitaine_ ," Q cries, applauding. "So true to form in your _ridiculously_ impulsive and heroic way."

Jim bristles at what sounds like more of the same condescension, but he's playing a long game here, and he's learning his opponent as he goes. He always has known the advantage which comes of being underestimated, and it may be the one thing that saves them now.

"Shut the sequence down, Vulcan," Q continues, with a last shake of amusement. "Your captain can bluff with the best of them. No, no. I have other plans for you and your ship."

"Captain?"

Jim flicks him a grateful look. "Shut it down, Spock."

 _Self-destruct aborted_ , the computer informs them after Spock's fingers flit briefly over the controls.

"Now that I've passed _that_ test, what else've you got, or was that the best you can do?" he asks dryly.

Q waves a finger in front of his nose. "Test, pah! That was but a pop quiz, James. You will not know the test when you see it; where would the challenge be in that? Yet you must pass it just the same, and your First Officer must pass his as well. What fun would there be in telling you what material to study?"

"What logic is there in administering a test without informing the student in at least general terms of its subject matter?"

"So sayeth the Vulcan whose singular academic achievement was to program a supposedly _unbeatable_ exam," Q replies dryly.

Spock looks _ticked_.

Jim tries not to laugh, he really does, but he doesn't quite manage it, only turns it into a sort of awkward cough before hiding his grin behind a hand. "Okay, surprise test, no idea when or where it will happen, no help from you. Got it. Now back to our original discussion…my terms?"

"Ah, yes. Your terms."

"You're going to have to offer me something more valuable than part of what I'll lose anyway if I fail, Q. Otherwise, you've got what we poor humans call exactly jack squat to bargain with here." He carelessly inspects a fingernail on his left hand, though he keeps one eye on the Omnipotent spluttering somewhere to his right. "You want me to give you a show you won't forget easily? You're going to have to ante up with something more than what is already on the table as part of the price for losing."

The Omnipotent looks suddenly wary. "I suppose you already have something in mind?" he asks sarcastically. "Let me guess, something for your precious ship? Or perhaps something more selfish - someone in the 'Fleet who _doesn't_ see you as George Kirk's delinquent son, since the only man who did got himself killed while you were last planetside, _demoted_?"

Spock's firm hand on his shoulder keeps him in his seat, and it's only that grounding influence that stops him from doing something really, really stupid.

"Struck a nerve, have I?"

He forces his fingers to unclench from the armrests, one by one, and offers up a dangerous, thin smile. "People have been doing that all my life, Q. You're in pretty pathetic company."

"Am I? Well perhaps you should not make it so easy for them, then, Captain."

He shrugs, gently dislodging Spock's hand with the gesture in an indication he's not going to do anything stupid now, and deliberately slouches in his chair. Crosses one leg and leans on an elbow with a look of pure boredom. "Wow, that one cut deep, Q. I'm barely holding back the tears. You may have to call McCoy up here to comfort me, Lieutenant."

Uhura snorts. "You really want to add another dose of mania to…whatever _this_ , is?" she asks dryly, making an all-encompassing gesture with one manicured hand in the direction of the Omnipotent.

"Now look here, my dear!"

"Oh, please. You're obviously getting off on this, or you would have destroyed us an hour ago. Get _on_ with it already." She rolls her eyes and deliberately turns around, back towards them. He glances up at Spock, who merely raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, _You expect me to be responsible for that?_

"Well!" An indignant sniff. "I must say, Captain, a tongue of fire you have on that one! I'd watch my back if I were you."

"I don't need to," he says dryly, seeing Sulu's eyes light up with repressed laughter. "I'm betting she's flipping you off right now."

Evidently the Omnipotents speak _ancient Terran vulgar_ , because Q's face reddens.

"So. If you've quite finished trying to rile me, Q, ante up. What've you got to offer me in return for being your free entertainment for the next few days? Because just based on this one interaction with you, I get the idea that you bore easily. You _need_ me. Don't bother denying it."

It's a gamble, but if he's right, it will at the least buy them some time, and possibly some respect – which in this case, could be more valuable than the time.

Q mutters something that sounds like _Jean-Luc was never so uncouth_ and then glares at him.

"What, exactly, were you thinking I should offer you, James? Choose wisely."

"Well let's see." He taps a finger against his lips in mock thoughtfulness, totally ignoring the fact that Q has moved closer to his chair, in an attempt to tower over him intimidatingly or something. Sure. After an appropriate pause, he finally looks up at the looming figure, and smirks. "Q, I want an edge."

A slow blink. "An edge."

"An edge." He sits up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "If my universe is as 'handicapped' as you say it is, in comparison to what the original intent of Destiny was, then I think if we pass your tests we deserve an edge that our 'parent universe' didn't have. Don't you think that's fair, Mr. Spock?"

Spock glares at him, a clear _you are insane. Sir._ hanging in the air for a moment before silently dropping to the deck.

He beams. "See, Spock agrees with me. It's only fair that you give us some sort of advantage if we win, since we've fought so hard to overcome an obvious handicap in the first place, Q. Or were you _lying_ about that bit?"

Q glowers, apparently outraged. "Omnipotents do not lie."

"Riiiiight, and neither do Vulcans," he snorts. "Sure. So those are my terms, Q. Are you going to give us an edge if we win, or do we simply disregard your doom and gloom and party like its 2195 for however long we have left until you get around to pulling the trigger on this universe?"

Frenetic energy finally coming to a standstill, Q pauses, arms folded in a human gesture of contemplation. "An edge," he repeats thoughtfully. "Hm. Yes…yes, I believe that could be arranged." Dark eyes narrow, and Jim notes the obvious fact that Q's hiding something.

That unfortunately is probably something he's going to have to deal with.

"So we have a deal?"

"I believe it can be done. But you must pass the tests in every particular, James Kirk."

"So must you follow through, in every detail."

"And your First Officer must pass his portion of the test as well, as you are both universal anchors of this universe."

"And you must agree in every detail to what we receive upon completion, so there can be no reneging on the deal," Jim says calmly.

Q's smile is edged. "You have a bargain, Captain. Shall we draw up the agreement?"

"Not until you _specify_ the advantage you're promising us. I think you'll find both I and my First Officer are pretty damn good at finding loopholes."

"Indeed."

The Omnipotent looks elaborately around the Bridge and her somewhat clueless officer complement. "I am _not_ feeling the love and trust here, people," he complains, plaintively.

Jim snorts. "So sorry, Tinkerbell. Pixie dust and faith and trust have no place in Starfleet. Now, about what we get if we win. Lieutenant, there are to be no transmissions off this ship of any kind until I give the order. Sulu, take the conn. Mr. Spock, Q, with me; Briefing Room Th-"

"-ree," he finishes, and scowls at the interior of his primary briefing room. "What, the turbolift isn't good enough for Omnipotents?"

Q flings himself crossly into the captain's chair at the head of the table and then scrambles back up again. "What horrid ergonomics," he grumbles, and snaps his fingers. The chair changes into a cushy marshmallow-like seat with a built-in ottoman.

Spock gives his captain The Look, the one that says _you got us into this, you get us out,_ and primly seats himself as far away from the being as he can get.

Kirk snaps his fingers. "Well, out with it. I have a ship to run, and a test to pass, Q."

Q yawns elaborately, waving a hand in a lazy circle. "Very _well_ , Captain. An edge, an advantage that your parent universe never got. What do you want, a time travel device? Because I won't give you one. Not even I will place that kind of unharnessed power in the hands of mortals. Especially _you_ mortals."

"Nothing that drastic, necessarily," he replies. " _Some_ of us have moral issues with tampering in other people's lives."

"Fascinating idea, morals," the being murmurs, eyes closed. "It must be dreadfully inconvenient when paired against ambition and desire."

Perhaps it isn't the wisest idea to antagonize a deity, but then again he never has been one to take the less dramatic course of action. He walks up behind the Omnipotent and promptly dumps the marshmallow chair over on its side, sending its occupant sprawling on the chilled durasteel flooring.

"What rude little savages you people are!"

"You'd better believe it." His grin is not at all pleasant. "My _edge_ , Q."

"Oh, very well." Q dusts himself off with a huff, eyeing a small rend in the uniform fabric with obvious distaste. Finally he looks up, eyes gleaming. "I'll tell you what I will give you, James Kirk. If you pass the tests, and your universe remains intact as we promise, then I will give you one thing."

He folds his arms, waiting.

"If you win, I will return to you, to your universe, any one deceased person whom you choose," Q says quietly.

His stomach drops out from under him, and judging from the look in Spock's eyes, even Vulcans weren't immune to the feeling.

"Is that a sufficient edge for you, Captain?"

"It…wasn't exactly what I had in mind," he finally finds the voice to reply, once time has resumed its course from that initial shocked crawl.

"Then you decline the offer?"

"No!" The quick response brings a raised eyebrow from the Omnipotent, and he hastily schools his features into a calmer expression. "No," he repeats, "you just took me by surprise, is all."

"Well, is that good enough for you, James?" Q demands, completely unfazed by his stunned expression. "Do you find that to be enough of an edge to motivate you? To be something worth fighting for?"

"To resurrect the dead is a highly immoral action," Spock finally, for lack of a better word, almost _spits_ out.

Q flicks him a cool glance. "Again, you assign a mortal's sense of morality to an Omnipotent, Vulcan. I care nothing for your morals. You humans' superstition, James, has always been quite amusing in its insistence that the dead are somehow sacred, by virtue of their simply being _dead_. Utter nonsense. And the Vulcans! Do not even pretend to be better, the way you cling to the katric beliefs as a way for your society to live on, and yet still ascribe to the supposed scientific principle that death's finality is a universal principle.

And besides," Q continues, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, "your supposed Destiny has already claimed several billion lives that were never supposed to be lost in this universe, Spock. How then is it in any way immoral even by _your_ pathetic mortal standards to return to life that which was taken innocently, prematurely?"

Spock is silent.

"You of all people should know, gentlemen, how _very_ different your universe would be were certain people alive in it, rather than, well, _not_."

Up until now, Jim's taken this Omnipotent's flippancy as a mere annoyance, somewhat amusing, and has used it for his own ends; but these stakes just became far less amusing, and far more important. If Q truly can command this kind of power? It's time to double down, and make his play.

"If you pass your test, James Kirk, you will be permitted to choose one person in the universe to return to life; whom you choose will in part determine your _future_ destiny. If you prove yourself to be the proper universal anchors in this universe, then I believe you may be trusted to allow its course to veer even further with this one new addition." Q smiles, holds out a hand. "Do we have a bargain, Captain?"

"On one condition," he finally says, all traces of levity gone in the face of this staggering information.

"Name it."

"That my First Officer chooses instead of me."

"Captain?" Spock's face has gone another shade of pale, if that's possible, and utter astonishment shows clearly in his eyes.

"I trust Mr. Spock's judgment, and his sense of scientific morality, implicitly. If I am to disrupt the moral balance and the future destiny of my universe with such a decision, he is more suited to make that decision unbiased by human emotion or prejudice," he continues, speaking to Q but with his eyes on his XO sitting opposite them.

Also, Jim is not going to go into this test knowing the deck is stacked in his favor; he’s going to win fair and square, and he needs something concrete to fight for. Spock's lost a hell of a lot more than he has, in a far shorter time. This is only fair, only right.

Spock looks at him in barely-veiled wonder, followed by a fearsome clench of eyebrows as he no doubt realizes just what he is going to have to do.

Assuming they do, actually manage to survive these tests.

"Agreed," Q cries cheerfully, as if he has not just literally given away a life. "Now, gentlemen –"

"A moment," Spock interjects. "Q, what guarantee have we that you will honor your part of this…arrangement?"

"Oh, _come_ now, Mr. Spock," the Omnipotent sighs, throwing up his hands in exasperation. " _Must_ you petty mortals always require visible proof? Just two measly centuries, and suddenly faith in the gods is a thing of the past for your sad little species!"

"No, he's right." He folds his arms, flicking an approving look in Spock's general direction. "For that matter, we don't even have a _real_ guarantee other than your word, that you know enough about us to actually make a fair judgment call."

Q's smile is malicious. "I know _everything_ about you, James Tiberius Kirk. _Everything_."

And that's all it takes.

In one silent, undramatic instant the briefing room disappears, wavering for only an instant until it turns into a scene that is all too familiar from the nightmares no one knows he still has regularly, more than two years later. Half-hazy walls tinged in red as he collapses against an unsteady floor, the wailing of distant alarms as the only home he's ever really loved falls like a rock straight out of the sky, and the sickening sensation of being literally burned alive from the inside overlaying all of it with sheer terror.

It's the reason he still avoids small enclosed spaces, and sleeps with a light projection on his ceiling – because closing his eyes in the dark just brings back the slithery, sick twinge of fear that makes him wonder if this time, he might just not wake up again.

 _(Again_.)

Thankfully, he only has a few precious seconds to panic over trying to breathe air that's just molten glass, before the world fades back into the chilled flooring and reconstituted atmosphere of his briefing room, silent as a shadow and punctuated only by his embarrassingly loud rasps for breath. And yeah, that was the floor he hit, after all, that much was real.

Freaking Omnipotents.

He uncurls with a painful wheeze, glaring as best he can while trying embarrassingly slowly to get back to his hands and knees at least. Q just smirks at him, and yawns obscenely from where he stands leaning against the nearest wall, idly observing.

Spock, contrarily, is on his feet with both splayed hands outstretched, almost as if pressing against an invisible wall in front of him – something that's eerily too close to home and he'd really like to stop that train of thought from continuing any further, thank you – and all things considered, that's probably just what he's doing. Aside from trying to kill Q with his brain, from the look of it. That particular expression of righteous Vulcan quite-logical-rage he's been on the bad end of only once, and he's never been stupid enough to get in its way again.

"Is that personal enough for you, Captain?" Q inquires innocently. "You may desist with the death-looks, Commander." A snap of fingers, and Spock lurches forward slightly as the invisible barrier disappears. "He has not been harmed. But you really should see someone about that claustrophobia, Captain."

He snorts. "That starship sailed, Q. I'm pretty sure I've had enough therapy appointments to become a licensed shrink myself, at this point." He hauls himself to his feet, shaking his head at Spock's hastily-aborted move to assist. "What exactly were you trying to prove?"

Q shrugs. "I do seem to recall it was you, who first asked for proof that I know you well."

"An action which I believe we both now regret." Spock's eyes could strip tritanium alloy. "Your methods of demonstration are illogically traumatizing to the human psyche."

"Oh, thanks for that," he snorts, although it's a little adorable that his CSO's quite so defensive on his behalf. "I'll have you know my psyche is as stable as anyone else's on this ship. Which isn't saying much, all things considered, but you know. Semantics."

Q seems to realize he's fast losing control of this encounter, and looks a bit disappointed that Jim isn't curling up into a ball and, well, bawling. He waves a hand impatiently. "Shall I demonstrate further, gentlemen? Perhaps with a brief example of the choices you have for your so-called resurrected _edge_ , Captain?"

"No," he snaps, because that just crosses a line. Crosses a _galactic_ _barrier_.

"Are you quite certain? Think about the preview I am offering you here free of charge, James. You never did get to say goodbye to –"

His hand spasms on Spock's arm. " _Enough_ ," he hears the Vulcan command sharply, all pretense at friendly sparring with this individual having long since vanished.

"Dear me! There is no need to be rude, Commander. I am merely asking you to think of the unique chance I offer," Q replies, voice deceptively soft. "Need I call for you six billion names, any one of which you could choose? Including –"

" _Don't_." The single word is hissed with enough venom to metaphorically kill anything that moves. Even Q blinks, eyeing Jim and the unusual fury in his expression with incredulity. So sue him, he's past caring. He can fairly feel the color spotting back into his face as he spits the next words out. "That will _do_ , Q. Whether I believe you or not, I have a job to do and you are not a part of it. I want you off my ship, and out of my crew's lives. _Now_."

"Perhaps I don't want to leave," the being sighs plaintively. "I rather like it here."

He takes one slow, deliberate step forward until his boot-tips touch the Omnipotent's, hands clenched until the knuckles turn white. His voice is dangerously low. "Get. Off. My. Ship."

Q merely bestows upon them a tolerant smile. "You have one week, gentlemen. Choose wisely each decision you make, James Kirk; for if you do not – if you cannot prove to be a better captain than your Prime Universe predecessor, your universe is forfeit."

And with that, the being vanishes, leaving only an echo of mocking laughter behind him.

For a moment he stands, fairly vibrating with anger, until reason reasserts itself, the realization that temporarily he's bought them some time helping him to regain control. He manages to exhale and pull his fury back under the calm façade of a Starfleet captain, he hopes at least visibly. It's an acting job he's well-versed at by now in his career, and while he doubts it's going to fool Spock, it will be enough to set his crew's minds at ease while he figures out where to go from here.

"Well, that was a little off the traveled star-chart, wasn't it?"

"I believe the appropriate human phrase to be – that is the understatement of the century. Sir."

He drops wearily into a chair, the forced levity dissipating under the staggering implications of what probably lies ahead for them – and of how high the stakes are if they fail. "Spock, how in the galaxy am I going to prove that I am a more capable captain than the James Kirk of a universe that _hasn't_ been screwed over already by Destiny?" he asks, waving a hand wildly in the air. "There's no way!"

"You will find one." The earnest promise is so completely illogical that he can't help but grin.

"Will I, now."

"Unless you propose simply surrendering to the inevitable."

"Never."

"I believe you have your own answer, then, Captain. However, I will admit to being at a loss as to how we should best strategize against this particular entity," Spock muses. "His very being seems to stem from a most illogical fascination with our mortal species; his tests quite likely will be equally illogical and therefore nearly impossible to predict, much less to master."

He smirks. "You're forgetting the same thing that Q apparently did, Spock."

A raised eyebrow. "And what might that be?"

"I'm a _cheater_ , Commander. You should know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Five  
> No footnotes for this chapter; references to ST:09 and STID shouldn't be spoilers by now


	6. Chapter Six

**_Chapter Six_ **

Starfleet Command stops for no man (or demigod), and so they continue on their way to their next mission, orders to investigate the unrest reported on the colonized planetoids in the Cerulean system. (Yes, some idiot in the 'Fleet's Exploratory Sciences division obviously had been having an unoriginal day during that particular stellar cartography stint, as the system centers around one giant blue star at its heart.)

Each of the seven small planets in the system has been colonized with a team from one of the Federation's alliances, an unusually inter-cooperative scientific endeavor that has for the last thirty years seemed to work in perfect harmony. Seven satellites, seven colonies, seven separate species depending on the planetoids' differing temperatures and atmospheres, and over the decades there has been much good-natured competition among all seven for various scientific discoveries.

Recently, however, the Federation has apparently been receiving reports regarding an outbreak of a deadly virus on the second and third planets, an unusually violent and deadly strain which has threatened to incapacitate two-thirds of the planetoids' populations. There are whispers that the outbreak is not naturally occurring, and Romulans seem to be the current primary suspects; but Jim thinks that's likely because they seem to _always_ be the primary suspects in anything violent, now that outright war with the Klingon Empire has been officially staved off and their primary enemy taken off the blaming ballot, so to speak.

After Khan's rampage, the Federation had only managed that particular feat by being smart enough to immediately decide upon full disclosure of the entire debacle, thus sufficiently explaining their presence in Klingon space and managing through some deft negotiation (and pointing out that there is no honor in going to war over the actions of a single madman) to achieve a very wary truce and expanded neutral zone between their territories.

This brittle peace between the Klingon Empire and the Federation has unfortunately only had the effect of turning public opinion even more distrustful against their other non-Federation neighbors. Despite the fact that Romulus had wisely brokered a truce with the Federation immediately following Nero's attacks, culminating in allowing neutral trade routes to the New Vulcan colony to pass through their space safely, the peace has been wary at best, and in recent months has begun to decay alarmingly in the face of skirmishes along the Romulan Neutral Zone.

And so, of course, if you're going to send a constitution-class starship into a potentially system-wide pandemic that could possibly be the precursor to an outright war crime, of course you're going to send the _Enterprise_.

Even several years after Nero's destruction of the majority of the 'Fleet, they've not rebuilt to their previous numbers, and ships of their size are still not as plentiful as they once were. As a result, the _Enterprise_ tends to draw the short straw at times on the most trying and sometimes ridiculous of missions, simply because they are one of said starships. He is remarkably fortunate, many times over, that this crew is as brilliant as they are, becoming a cohesive whole in such a short time. He himself, has grown much in the last year alone, doing his utmost to prove himself worthy of that trust they've shown, and trying to prove to a still-skeptical 'Fleet that they are no longer a ship full of children riding the solar winds of luck and putzing around the galaxy trying to figure out what the hell they're doing.

Dying puts things into perspective, just a bit.

His First Officer has, true to form, not questioned his request to take the conn for the remaining two hours of the shift following Q's departure from the ship, but he can clearly see Spock is curious about the request. However, they both need time to assimilate the information Q has told them, and he's got to pull himself back together to get his head back in the game for this mission.

But, if he has to be honest, that's not the real reason he asked Spock to assume command. There is just something a little disturbing about talking to the Ambassador about his other self, and he doesn't need to add double paradoxical weirdness to the mess by letting Spock eavesdrop.

Besides, Spock would no doubt consider what he's about to do cheating. Even if asking Old Spock how he might be able to improve upon the supposedly _perfect_ Captain Kirk of the other universe doesn't technically break any rules, since Q never said they couldn't get outside help. Right?

Whatever, he's doing it anyway.

It takes about half an hour for the Ambassador to be able to take his vid-call, since the day and hour are unusual for them; he's actually doing the calculations belatedly in his head to make sure it's not like 0200 in the middle of the night there when the communique finally goes through, lighting up with a soft chime to indicate connection on the other end.

The elderly Vulcan's eyes gleam in that adorably unVulcan way he wishes his Spock would unbend enough to show too, though an obvious question hides in their brown depths.

_"This is an unexpected pleasure, old friend. Unless –"_

"No, no, we're fine," he interrupts, and yeah, he probably should have led with that; the old man probably thought something had happened. "Well, for now we're fine."

A graying eyebrow inclines. _"A far from reassuring choice of words, Jim."_

He snorts, grinning. "Yeah. Well…look, I know we just talked yesterday, but there's been a…complication?" he ventures, a little sheepishly.

The Ambassador looks more amused than concerned, appearing to take his word for now that they're not in immediate danger. _"With…?"_

"You know anything about a guy named Q? Tall, dark, and omnipotent?"

The startled blink is clue enough; he can read his Vulcans well enough to understand that much. _"Q."_ The syllable is uttered with a bitter tinge, and the older man looks away for a moment before returning his gaze to the vid-screen. _"Yes, Jim. While I personally never encountered one of the Continuum in their current incarnations, I do know of them."_

“Wait, there’s more of them?”

_“Their societal structure, if it can be called that, is nebulous to us at best, Jim. All of the Continuum are designated Q; however, to my limited knowledge of my own universe, very few ever took true interest in meddling with the affairs of lower species. I presume the primary Q of whom you speak, is the same.”_

He reclines slightly in his chair. "Probably, yeah. This guy seemed to know the previous _Enterprise_ – I’m guessing a couple versions after you? – at least passably well. Then he really is an Omnipotent?"

 _"Unfortunately for the mortals he decides to torment, yes,"_ the ambassador sighs. _"He seemed to show little interest in my captain in our early years, but in later decades his Alpha Quadrant attention seemed to be practically fixated upon the_ Enterprise _-_ D _and her captain, a human named Jean-Luc Picard. Captain Picard was…a good man."_ High praise, if simplistically stated; he recognizes the unspoken for what it is. There’s respect there, too, and that’s not easily earned. _"Q is an omnipotent being who delights in using his powers to wreak havoc upon unsuspecting mortals, Jim, thereby entertaining himself when he has little to do in fulfilling his purpose in the universe."_

"Multiverse, apparently," he corrects absently, rubbing a hand across his chin.

Old Spock shoots him a startled look. _"You have not –"_

"Believe me, I wish I could say I haven't," he answers ruefully. "So the guy shows up on my Bridge this morning, completely out of nowhere. Says my universe is just a fluke, a mistake in the Time-Space Continuum, and that we're scheduled to be destroyed because we're taking up valuable real estate in the multiverse."

And yeah, he probably should have worded that better; the poor old Vulcan seems to be rapidly turning a color to match the beige walls outlined behind his desk chair on New Vulcan.

"But we made a deal!" he continues hastily, hoping his voice doesn't betray the fact that he has no idea what the hell he's doing, exactly, with said deal.

Nothing, not even an inter-dimensional shift, will likely ever change that eyebrow. _"Indeed?"_

"Indeed." He summons a reassuring smile from somewhere. "But…" and he sobers slightly, realizing just what he's going to have to ask the poor guy to do, and he really hadn't thought this through all the way, had he. "…I'm going to need your help, Ambassador."

_"Indeed? If Q has given you a universal ultimatum, Jim, I do not see how I can be of assistance, being outside that universe by origin. But if I can, then of course you may ask me what you wish."_

"Yeah, about that…Anyhow, I guess _technically_ it's not exactly by the book but you're my only real hope here."

His worry must be showing clearly to a practiced eye, because the old man's features soften. _"I confess to being greatly troubled by the idea of this being's interference in your universe, Jim. However, we have not the time for such ruminations. Tell me how I may assist you?"_

He runs a hand through his hair and then pokes it back into shape again. "Well…" He hesitates for a moment, then continues. "Okay, it's like this. Q said I have a chance to keep the hammer from coming down and blasting us into oblivion – yes, I _know_ it's a mixed metaphor, okay – but the thing is that it's a test for _me_. I have to pass a test, in order to keep the universe from basically imploding with us all inside, to prove we're supposedly worthy of staying in existence."

_"Did Q specify what sort of test this might be?"_

"Actually, yeah." He steels his nerve and leans closer to the vid-image. Nothing like appalling directness, is there? "He told me if I can prove myself to be a better captain than _your_ Jim Kirk, then that'd be enough to prove my universe is worthy to continue. I hate having to ask you something like that," he adds sincerely, as the Vulcan's warm eyes betray shock, then comprehension, and finally an aching tenderness before all three are quickly squirreled away under a Vulcan mask. "But, well…"

 _"It is the logical thing to do,"_ is the reply, accompanied by a wry quirk of the lips. _"Though I rather believe Q might consider it to be cheating."_

"Tough. I hate to ask you, but we only have twenty minutes before we're in approach to the Cerulean system and I'll have to be on the Bridge for I dunno how long. It could be the last chance I have before I get dropped smack in the middle of whatever this test is, exactly. So. Um…" How the hell is he supposed to ask this, exactly? "…Do you have any idea how I could possibly prove I'm a better captain than your Jim Kirk? I mean, the guy was like, perfect, wasn't he?"

Spock's eyes flicker in amusement. _"Hardly, Jim."_ The reply seems truthful enough, levity tempered with affection.

"Well, that's a relief," he mutters. "But I still can't think of how I would prove I'm a more worthy captain…"

 _"I sincerely doubt it is your exact worthiness to be captain of the_ Enterprise _which is in question, Jim; Q is testing your inner character, not your reaction to circumstances. His conflicts with mortals are cerebral; he 'plays the game', so to speak, for the entertainment of seeing into the fascinating minds of those the Continuum decides are central players in any universe's drama."_

"My mind isn't all that fascinating." Weirdly interesting, maybe; disturbed, obviously; twisted, _definitely_ – but not fascinating enough to attract the attention of an Omnipotent.

_"I assure you, it is, Jim."_

Okay, so blushing in front of the galaxy's most logical species is totally not cool.

The elder Spock is paying him no mind, though, which is good. _"Perhaps we might be better served to see if I can assist you in discovering in what crucial ways you might differ from my universe's counterpart to you?"_

"If you don't mind. And if you can do it without giving me universe-ending information I'm not meant to have." Spock – his Spock – will kill him if he finds out he's having this conversation in the first place, and that's a battle he doesn't have the energy to fight right now. "I mean, you don't have to tell me stuff that's too personal if you don't want to –"

 _"I have nothing to hide from you, Jim, unless the information would alter your destiny in this universe,"_ Old Spock replies, with a kind of complete, quiet acquiescence that is a little adorable if he thinks about it for long. _"But besides this, since Q has already undertaken that particular risk by threatening you, to avail yourself of every resource and to grant you that aid is only logical. Ask what you will; I will hold nothing back from you."_

He squirms a little; asking about _yourself_ , from someone that obviously still worships the ground you – Old You – walked on, so to speak, is awkward in ways only people like he can understand. But his time is limited, and their time in this universe is likely limited, so…

"Well…if you could just, I don't know. Tell me a little about him. His command style, his approach to diplomacy, strengths and weaknesses, whatever you think might give me an idea of how we're different."

_"Hmm, indeed. His command style…a more uninformed crewman might have called it, extremely over-confident; his more envious peers termed it arrogance."_

"Really?"

 _"It was **not** that, as anyone who knew the man soon found; he did not become youngest captain in the 'Fleet by chance, nor did the _Enterprise _survive missions that by rights she never should have, by chance. That ability to take a room – or an entire planet, on more than one occasion – by storm based on sheer charisma alone, was simply a part of his human personality. He could no more turn that off than I could cease to be Vulcan. Self-confidence is a necessity in such a command style, as you no doubt are aware. A bluff is only as strong as the confidence of the man who wields it."_

He raises an eyebrow. "That's a very human observation, coming from a Vulcan."

A brief almost-smile, tinged with melancholy _. "I have observed humans for many decades, young one."_

"Point taken."

 _"As for his vices…"_ The ambassador's eyes brighten in amused remembrance. _"They were few in number, but intense under provocation. The man had emotional control to rival a full-blooded Vulcan at times, which could have unfortunate consequences for those closest to him. And while he was by far one of the most open and accepting individuals I have ever been fortunate enough to meet, he was not perfect, Jim. For years, he remained bitterly prejudiced against the Klingon Empire in our universe, due to events I will not disclose to you. He was not incapable of holding grudges, or of permitting his emotions to cloud his judgment when there was none to call him out on that judgment."_

"No one, meaning you?"

The elderly Vulcan's lips twitch. _"He did have the unfortunate habit which I believe you might share, of being exceedingly reluctant to accept help from those around him."_

He squints suspiciously at the screen. "Spock's a tattle-tale, isn't he."

 _"You also apparently share the same borderline paranoia regarding your command."_ The reply is drier than the New Vulcan desert air.

He snorts a laugh.

 _"But in answer to your query: it is correct that even I could not always convince him of his error when he believed himself in the right._ Creative Interpretation of the Prime Directive _became what I believe you humans call a 'hot-button' topic by the close of our five-year mission, one reason why we were denied a second."_

Whoa. That's a big no-no. He must really have been an Admirals' pet if he got away with murder like that and only got benched for it. "Well, Spock – my Spock – won't let me bend any rules like, at all," he replies, grinning slightly. "I mean, he about got me demoted over it at one point not too long ago. Unintentionally, but y'know. Principle of the thing. So why did _you_ let him get around the Prime Directive like that without calling him on it?"

The elderly ambassador looks down for a moment. Then, raising his head, he answers with measured thoughtfulness. _"I had given him my oath of loyalty, young one,"_ he replies simply. _"Without question, without exception, without stipulation. Until the end of Time."_

Jim feels like someone just punched him in the stomach. "You…trusted him that much." Trusted him so much that even if Old Kirk had made the wrong decisions, he would still know that he'd have Spock backing him in the face of everyone else. Who would really need the _Federation's_ confidence, if you had _that_?

 _"That much,"_ is the gentle agreement, _"and more."_

"Must've been nice." And no, he does not sound grumpy or bitter, thank you very much.

He is slightly surprised to see Old Spock's eyes crinkle at the corners. _"You are not entirely bereft of such regard from your own First Officer, Jim. Three years of association hardly equates to a quarter-century; you must be patient if you intend to continue to develop such a relationship."_

He knows that's true to some extent; even after everything they've been through, there's no way in hell Spock and he haven't killed each other yet, no way the _Enterprise_ has survived the hell-in-space she has unless there's something special about them, about his whole command team, his whole crew.

But still.

"Yeah, I know Spock trusts me with his life. I'm just not sure he trusts me with _mine_ ," he answers, smiling.

 _"That, at least, is certainly a universal constant,"_ is the dry rejoinder. _"Also, recent past events considered, one would say the logical conclusion is that, in actuality, you cannot be trusted with your death."_

His grin widens at the dark humor. "Nice. But seriously," he continues, when the amusement has faded under the weight of what he's been told. "I have no idea how I'm supposed to beat this thing."

 _"You must simply do what you believe is right, Jim,"_ the older man says gently. _"Trust your instincts, and do not permit yourself to second-guess your command decisions based upon Q's predictions. What will be, will be. Self-doubt is a death sentence to command, so your elder counterpart once advised me."_

He has a headache from this whole mess; he needs to make the time to see Bones before they start communications with the Cerulean planetoids because he can't afford to feel this fuzzy in the middle of what needs to be a deft negotiation. Scrubbing at his eyes, he sighs and then returns his attention to the calm expression waiting patiently on the vid-screen. "One more question?"

_"Name it."_

"Do you believe in Destiny?" he asks bluntly. "Because my Spock doesn't."

The elderly Vulcan meets his eyes for a moment, something undefinable twisting in the dark gaze. _"I do,"_ comes the answer at last, decisive and final.

He blinks, surprised. And curious. "Why?"

Spock's eyes drop, as if in embarrassment or something else he is attempting (not overly successfully) to conceal. _"Because I must, Jim."_

Well, that's informative. "May I ask…why, exactly?" he inquires hesitantly, not wanting to offend if the matter is just too private, or too painful a recollection. Or, all things considered, both.

The ambassador hesitates for a moment, as if in mental debate. Then, a decision apparently made, he rises from his seat before the viewer. _"I believe you may safely know this, Captain. A moment, if you will."_ He moves out of sight of the vid-screen, but returns only a few seconds later.

A small object appears to be cradled carefully in worn hands _. "This is the only personal possession which came with me through the wormhole created between our universes those years ago by the detonation of red-matter in the Romulan space of my world, Jim."_ The object is placed with exceeding care upon the table, before the vid-screen, and he finally gets a good look at it.

It's an unremarkable enough, fairly plain, small round pendant, just a few centimeters in diameter and made of some softly-polished black metalloid he's never quite seen before. A practical, sturdy chain of the same metal seems to be attached to it, no doubt forming a loop meant to be hung or worn around the neck.

"A locket?" he hazards, a little surprised at the idea of such an unemotional species wearing something so…sentimental.

 _"Of sorts. A holo-emitter."_ The ambassador's voice is slightly distorted by the angle of his head, tilted down toward the object in question – but the tone is unmistakably fond.

"Isn't wearing any kind of purely ornamental jewelry a little _illogical_?"

 _"One could make that argument,"_ is the bland reply, with a hint of amusement. Dark eyes flick up to his on the viewer. _"But I do not believe that is your real inquiry."_

"You got me." He leans forward, genuinely curious. "You were saying, about destiny?"

_"Indeed. I do not believe it will cause any harm to your timeline to view this, Jim, as I believe its message to be universally constant. And perhaps it will explain why I must, most unequivocally, believe in destiny."_

One long, graceful finger presses an unseen activation button – fingerprint recognition, possibly? – and an image springs into life atop the pendant. Holographic technology far beyond anything he's seen to date in their universe outside that very rudimentary, experimental holodeck technology they're talking about right now at the Daystrom Institute. This is very advanced tech, something that would clue him in to the fact it's from another universe even without the elderly ambassador's explanation.

But it's not the genuinely fascinating tech that arrests his attention; it's the disturbing, almost eerie feeling of looking into a mirror – but one that's uncomfortably wrong, somehow. He's seen photographs of his father, and he knows he looks somewhat like him; but this man doesn't really resemble those photographs, and yet somehow Jim feels like he's still staring into his own face, just…not.

Spock – his Spock – has tried to explain why he really dislikes the elderly ambassador (beyond a somewhat adorable possessiveness over Jim himself which is equal parts hilarious and disturbing and which his XO denies vehemently) and has been unable to really put into words why, other than a feeling of wrongness when in close proximity to the elderly Vulcan, possibly the universe's way of warning against too many paradoxes. But Jim hasn't really understood that until this second – this moment when his skin crawls at the sense of wrong that stares him in the face, an instinctive recoil, like two identically charged magnets immediately repelling each other.

He's looking at himself, and it's undeniably… _disquieting_.

Also, good gods. At least he isn't tone-deaf in this universe.

But really…a much older version of himself, singing a very human happy birthday to an aging Vulcan? There's an easy charm about it, some hint of a deep, abiding affection that is almost strangely effortless.

 _I know, I know_ , the image finally speaks, with a laugh that fairly glows with starshine. It's easy to see glints of that magnetic charisma the Ambassador spoken of, even in what is obviously a personal communication. This James Kirk is a man whose personality is far different than his own: charm and disarm, seem to be his weapons of choice.

Jim himself tends toward a crash-and-burn, taking everything he can with him and hoping he saves his people in the process. It's inelegant, but it usually works.

_I'm aware, it's illogical to celebrate something you had nothing to do with, but I haven't had the chance to congratulate you on your appointment to the ambassadorship, so I thought I'd seize the occasion._

_Bravo, Spock. They tell me your first mission may take you away for a while, so I'll be the first to wish you luck. And to say…I miss you, old friend._

Vague impressions only, wraiths of memories barely seen in a hasty mind-meld long ago, brush ghostly against his memory. He has the shivering suspicion that this message, whatever it is, had likely been sent just before Kirk had died in that other universe. He's never asked for particulars, because that's in bad taste all 'round, all things considered – but it's obvious just from the elderly Vulcan's expression now, that even all these decades later, this is a wound that time has scarred but not healed.

 _I suppose I'd always imagined us outgrowing Starfleet together,_ the holo-image sighs, fondness creasing the lines of stubbornly-strong features. _Watching life swing us into our Emeritus years._

 _I look around at the new cadets now and can't help thinking…has it really been so long? Wasn't it only yesterday we stepped onto the_ Enterprise _as boys? That I had to prove to the crew I deserved command…and their respect?_

That hits a little too close to home, even now.

The man's tone changes, lightens just a fraction – an obviously oft-repeated, teasing tone. _I know what you'd say. 'It's their turn now, Jim.' And of course you're right._

_But it got me thinking._

He sees a flicker of wistful fondness flit through the elderly ambassador's expression, before it's carefully hidden away again, and it breaks his heart, just a little. So many decades, and he can still bring that look to the face of a species who professes to have such control over their emotions?

 _Who's to say we can't go one more round? By the last tally, only twenty-five percent of the galaxy's been charted_. _I'd call that negligent. Criminal, even – and an open invitation_.

Now that sounds more like him; maybe they aren't quite so different after all.

The holo-image's voice softens, losing its edge of levity in a deep edge of sincerity that is almost mesmerizing. It's actually very easy to understand the hypnotic power that had obviously swayed a Vulcan in another universe into the kind of unwavering loyalty he sees every time the old man looks at _him_ and sees someone else. That's an innate ability to command and compel, one that can't be taught or learned.

An innate ability he doesn't have, and has to make up for in some other way.

 _You once said being a starship captain was my first, best destiny,_ the image says softly _. And…if that's true, then yours is to be by my side._

Aw, hell.

_And if there's any true logic to the universe, Spock...we'll end up on that Bridge again someday._

He makes the _colossal_ mistake of looking from the holo-image to the Ambassador's eyes. Again, a memory-wraith flits, half-remembered, through his brain; phantom after-image of that mind-meld so vivid it's still imprinted in some well-buried corner of his subconscious somewhere. _So you do feel._ So deeply, so passionately, so _painfully_.

The hologram's voice lightens, quicksilver change to a smile warm as summer sunshine. _Admit it, Spock,_ the image finishes with a secretive half-shrug. _For people like us, the journey itself…is home._ (1)

The image raises a hand in a barely passable version of the Vulcan _ta'al_ ; a raised eyebrow, as if firmly defying anyone to point out the fact. _Anyway. Happy birthday, Spock, and may you live long and prosper with many more._

A final, more genuine smile eases the aging captain's features, and he leans forward slightly in the holo-image, irrationally reaching out as if to touch the recipient of his gift. _T'du khart-lan ek-wak, Ambassador. Take care, my friend._ (2)

The image flickers and then disappears, as if a black hole has just swallowed all the light in the sparse New Vulcan room. The pendant lies quiet upon the table, silence on both ends of the communique channel.

Then he looks up at the older version of his own First Officer, and the unshielded loss and longing and utter _loneliness_ in the elderly Vulcan's eyes almost breaks his heart.

 _"Two months later, he was lost to the Nexus during the_ Enterprise-B _'s maiden voyage,"_ Old Spock says softly, the words ringing too harsh in the silence. _"He saved his ship that day, and for that final act I am grateful. It was…fitting."_ (3)

"But you said once that he didn't die then," he finally finds his voice and half-asks the burning question.

 _"No, he did not,"_ the elder replies, all painful traces of emotion vanishing for the moment behind the safety of an expressionless countenance. _"He was listed first as missing in action. I…for the first three months after his disappearance, Starfleet launched a search for him and any surviving members of the_ Lakul _who might have been pulled into the Nexus prior to the ship's explosion, while I researched what I could regarding the energy ribbon itself and when it might reappear in our universe. Neither of us were successful in any way, and another three months later James T. Kirk was pronounced presumed-dead and given a hero's memorial."_ (4)

"But what really happened?" he asks, not understanding.

Spock straightens perceptibly, and carefully replaces the pendant in the invisible folds of his meditation robe. _"That is not something you should know, at least at this time, Jim. Sufficient knowledge, is that seventy-eight years later, he was finally put to rest; again saving the world and indeed the universe, beside another captain of the_ Enterprise _."_

"Captain Picard?"

A slightly surprised eyebrow. _"Affirmative."_

He shivers, trying to process everything he's just seen. "I hope, when the time comes – again, I mean - I'll go up with my ship," he finds himself saying, despite not intending to add to the emotional melodrama flying high in this room already.

 _"I would sincerely hope that is not the case for many decades to come,"_ the ambassador replies, eyebrow raised. _"Something informs me your own First Officer might have somewhat strong opinions on the subject."_

He rolls his eyes. "Spock has strong opinions on _everything_." The elderly Vulcan's lips twitch suspiciously, and he freezes. "He's right behind me, isn't he."

"Indeed." The tone is almost as cold as the coffee now sitting undrunk on his desk.

Damn it on both counts.

He winces. "Um…hey?" he offers, attempting a disarming grin as he half-turns in his seat. "Didn't hear you come in. Join the party?"

He knows when he's outmatched, and so doesn't take offense when Spock's brows lower fearsomely his direction. "Your levity is inappropriate, given the subject matter of what you have just finished discussing, Captain."

He sighs, and turns back to the screen with a magnificent effort to not roll his eyes. Old Spock only looks mildly entertained by the two of them, which in fairness seems to be his default setting.

Spock – his Spock – steps closer to the vid-screen. "May I make an inquiry of a personal nature, regarding your current discussion?" he asks with all the subtlety of a type two phaser array.

The Ambassador inclines his head wordlessly.

"Um, right, so I'll leave you to it –"

"Unnecessary," both Spocks say in unison.

He drops back into his chair, rubbing the headache away from his temples that's rapidly building from Vulcan surround-sound.

He does not get paid enough for this.

_"You too viewed the entirety of the message which I just showed to Jim."_

Sneaky old man must've known he was there all along.

"I did."

 _"I presumed you might have questions. Ask what you will,_ pi'shal. _"_ (5)

"I have but one, a personal inquiry." Spock's pale features look a little pinched; but then who wouldn't be shaken up over such a sentimental message on top of everything they know had happened to that old universe. Theirs isn't the only universe where Destiny apparently didn't just miss the launch, but showed up at totally incorrect coordinates. Their lives are one giant living embodiment of the definition for a 'Fleet-triggered SNAFU, emphasis on the AFU.

He suddenly remembers that the Ambassador had said the pendant was the only personal possession that had made it through the wormhole with him those few years prior – which means he had to have been carrying it on his person, probably wearing it, on the mission to save Romulus. The implications of that – because how many decades has it been? – are enough to make him feel like someone's just walked over his grave.

Again.

For the second time in as many universes?

Seriously, their lives are _messed up_.

Spock's still yammering, posture rigid enough to indicate he's probably feeling something of the same even if he'd die himself before admitting as much to anyone. "The shock of your Captain Kirk's death must have been severe, especially following the sudden discovery minutes before that he was not actually deceased as long presumed."

 _"Receiving the news while in the midst of an undercover negotiation with the Romulan underground was…unpleasant, yes,"_ is the cautious admittance. _"However, this is not an inquiry, Spock. Speak your mind, young one."_

Spock's eyes spark with desperate curiosity, tinged with slight annoyance at the term of endearment. "How did you cope with the psychic repercussions of his death?" he asks bluntly.

Jim half turns, blinking in surprise at the abruptness of the question and also its complete unexpectedness.

"Wait, what psychic repercussions? What's he talking about?"

The ambassador's eyes suddenly darken in an unidentifiable pain, but his tone remains steady. _"I…did not feel him die, Spock,"_ he replies, equally blunt.

His First stares at the screen, openly skeptical. "You felt _nothing_ when he died?"

 _"It had been **seventy-eight** **years** , young one."_ The elderly Vulcan sighs, an almost distressingly human sound fractured with resignation and sadness. _"And we were never mentally attuned over long distances, Spock. You know this as well as I, that even the bonds of the closest of_ t'hy'la _or of life-mates do not always extend over thousands of lightyears – much less through the intra-dimensional walls of such unexplored phenomena as the Nexus has proven to be. We were not, as many of our acquaintances presumed, life-bonded; and even if we had been, with one partner in such a bond being a psi-null human, the likelihood of the bond reaching that far would have been low indeed."_ (6)

"And yet, the crew of the _Intrepid_ , in the very farthest reaches of the Delta Quadrant, felt the psychic echo of Vulcan's destruction three years ago, to the point of becoming nearly incapacitated at their posts. A distance over four times that of the intervening space between Romulus and Veridian III," Spock presses ruthlessly. He's obviously after something, but hell if Jim can tell what exactly it is. (7)

 _"And they were all full-blooded, therefore by extension fully telepathic Vulcans,"_ Old Spock answers with infinite patience. _"In addition, the repercussions of six billion deaths cannot be ignored or unheard by any even mildly telepathic individual; not so, with one solitary death by one being whose mind is heavily shielded due to an undercover assignment."_

"But for a Vulcan, one life is as precious as six billion; the telepathic backlash should have been equally noticeable. You cannot profess to believe you would not have felt something. I have personally experienced this, Ambassador. _It is not possible_."

Jim winces out of pure reflex, at the hint of pure venom that still tinges his First's voice anytime the Incident is brought up. Khan is actually fortunate he was put back into cryostorage before Nyota managed to get Spock's head back on straight, or he might be writing the guy letters in a 'Fleet penal colony.

"Look, why exactly is this such a big deal, can you tell me that at least?" he finally manages to interject, hopefully derailing what looks like an increasingly uncomfortable confrontation.

He receives two sets of sternly-inclined eyebrows, and a twin _"Negative, at this time."_

"Well, okay then." He waves a hand peremptorily, rolling his eyes.

"How do you explain your entire lack of reaction to your Captain Kirk's death?" Spock asked intently.

The ambassador merely looks at him.

Spock blinks, slowly becoming more tense as the seconds tick by. "…You did not even feel his return to reality from the fantasy-world of the Nexus, did you?" he asks at last.

The old man's eyes drop, as if too weary or too ashamed to continue the discussion. _"I did not,"_ is the quiet admittance. _"I felt nothing at his return, and knew nothing of his death until Captain Picard sent the news to me some months by way of an encrypted communique at the hands of a mutual acquaintance while I was working behind the scenes of Romulan bureaucracy. It is inexplicable to my mind, young one; even on Romulus, I felt Leonard McCoy's passing – but for my captain, I felt nothing. I cannot explain it, Spock, and it is illogical to continue making such an attempt. The mind is a strange thing."_

"I see." Spock's face is expressionless as usual, but Jim can fairly see the wheels spinning in that brilliant brain. The problem is, he has no idea what his XO is contemplating, much less why or even _if_ he should be scared of it.

And on a totally unrelated note, it's a little adorable that the old man still refers to his Jim Kirk as _captain_ , even though if the stories are true, they both had been captains at one point and his older counterpart has now been (at least considered) dead for like, nine decades.

But an instant later, his First snaps abruptly to attention before him, all other concerns for the moment apparently forgotten. "My apologies for the intrusion, Captain, but we will be within detailed sensor range of the Cerulean system in…as of this moment, two-point-three-five minutes. Your presence will be necessary on the Bridge for the final approach."

"You could have just comm-ed me, instead of coming to find me?" he ventures curiously.

"I…was in need of some answers, sir, considering the gravity of current events," his First replies, with a nod toward the view-screen. The old man appears to be patiently watching their interplay with more amusement than anything else. "My apologies for the interruption, Ambassador."

 _"Apologies are unnecessary where no offense is taken_ , pi'shal _."_

"I'm coming, Spock; wait the turbolift for me, will you?" he asks, stretching his limbs in preparation to rising.

"Aye, sir." Nodding to his counterpart, the younger then leaves the room as silently as he had evidently entered.

Jim glances back at the older man and smiles, pleased to see a responding twinkle in the other Spock's eyes. He is suddenly assailed with a sudden wash of sympathetic grief for this man who has lost so much in so short a time; his entire work on Romulus ruined in a day, an entire universe and all he ever knew left behind forever, stranded for the rest of Time in a new one with only guilt for company and the child-ghosts of old friends to watch from a distance.

"I'm so sorry," he blurts suddenly, even though none of this is really his fault. What's done is done, and he simply can't fix things, no matter how hard he tries to be his counterpart's Jim Kirk.

But the tiny, not-really-a-smile he receives in return warms him slightly. _"I thank thee,"_ Spock replies in formal Vulcan, and raises a hand in farewell. _"Jim, tread carefully with Q. Do not relax your guard, and please - trust your First Officer's intuition when your own fails you. I believe I am qualified to advise upon the wisdom of such a course of action."_

"I'm getting better about that."

 _"Indeed you are."_ A glint of amusement overpowers the melancholia for a moment _. "I doubt I shall be of more assistance than your own crew, but if you feel I can be, do not hesitate to contact me,"_ the elderly Vulcan adds. _"I shall be on the Federation research vessel_ Patagonia _for the next two weeks, surveying Class-M planets for medicinal plant life that could grow in New Vulcan soils. Subspace communications should reach me within three hours."_

"We'll keep you informed." He reaches up to turn off the screen as the elderly Vulcan nods in farewell.

Now, to see if Spock's going to pretend like he _hasn't_ been eavesdropping outside the door, and figure out what exactly all that psychic psycho-babble was about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Six  
> (1) This transcription is taken straight from a scene which was deleted from the ST:2009 script, originally intended as a William Shatner voice-over but discarded for some reason before the movie was filmed. The transcription ends with this footnote; everything following it is my creation.  
> (2) T'du khart-lan ek-wak is a combination of the Vulcan word khart-lan (Starfleet captain), ek-wak (always, perpetually) and T'du, an informal phrase meaning belonging to you; it's the closest approximation in the Vulcan language dictionary I can cull together to mean a colloquial equivalent to yours, always or something of the sort, with the emphasis on their changing careers at the time  
> (3) Star Trek: Generations. Which has to rate within the top five of the Lamest Character Deaths in cult movie history. I believe I'd have been content to know that Kirk died when the Nexus pulled him from the Enterprise-B; it was his later death in the movie that destroyed what could have been a (still horrible, but at least fitting) going out saving his ship.  
> (4) The Lakul was the name of one of the two ships in Generations which the Enterprise-B was attempting to rescue from the Nexus. After managing to transport some of the crew out and free the Enterprise itself with a modified navigational deflector, the Nexus ripped across the hull of the Engineering section Kirk was in, exposing it to open space.  
> (5) Pi-shal: literally, 'young self' or 'little self'  
> (6) As I’ve said elsewhere, I write TOS gen fic for the primary reason that I write what I see on-screen as canon. I also don't believe sex necessarily equates love or vice-versa, and that one can sometimes come at the expense of the other in fiction. Zero objections to anyone reading my stories in other ways if that's what flies your starship.   
> (7) In TOS, the Intrepid was a Vulcan exploratory science vessel, destroyed in The Immunity Syndrome. Spock felt the psychic effects of that destruction back on board the Enterprise.


	7. Chapter Seven

**_Chapter Seven_ **

"You want to tell me what that was all about?"

Spock's gaze appears to be fixed on some nonexistent spot on the pristine transparisteel doors as the lift rises to the Bridge with the soothing hum of well-loved machinery. He knows better by now than to repeat the question, only waits patiently until his XO finally formulates the words to his satisfaction in his mind enough to vocalize them.

"Captain, while I appreciate both your confidence in my judgment and the opportunity offered, you will agree that your passing off to me the responsibility of choosing the final consequences of your bargain with Q will take much deliberation."

Oh. That.

 _Probably_ should have given him some kind of heads-up on that one.

"Yeah, my bad," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

His First's eyes slide his direction, lips quirking slightly. "It was not a complaint, Captain. I am here to serve. Rather, I was merely endeavoring to explain my desire to choose prudently. The wrong choice could disrupt our timestream far more than it is already. Such consequences could be even more disastrous than Q's interference."

"Surely not much more disastrous. And besides," he points out ruefully as the lift slows, "you're assuming I even pass his test in the first place. Who knows, you might get lucky and it might not even be an issue."

"Fortunately for us both, Vulcans do not believe in luck."

His snort of laughter is muffled by the doors opening. They exit in perfect sync toward their stations, parting ways at the steps down to the command dais.

"Captain. Her Highness Ma'arta of the Gra'aitian colonists on Cerulea Prime is holding for you, sir," Uhura speaks up from behind him as he sends his chair swinging toward the main viewscreen.

Breathing a muttered prayer that he won't butcher the woman's name, rank or any native customs he's managed to overlook in the official briefing because the _last_ thing they need's another incident like the one with the freaking _Gorns_ , he glances back toward his Comms chief with a nod of thanks. (1)

"Put her on, Lieutenant." The screen flickers briefly – magnetic interference? No report mentioned that, he'll have to see if Spock's people can come up with something to compensate if they intend to stay in orbit. Their engines will lose efficiency if it keeps up over a long period. But it clears after a moment, revealing the stately features of the dignitary they're supposed to be meeting. "Your Highness, I am James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship _Enterprise_ ," and no, he never does get tired of saying that, "sent to evaluate the biological threat on the Cerulean system."

_"Captain Kirk, on behalf of the Cerulean colonies allow me to officially welcome you and your Federation representatives to Cerulea Prime."_

While at first glance humanoid, the Gra'aitian peoples vary from Terran in more subtle differences such as internal physiognomy and unusual characteristics such as hair and eye color unnatural to Terran humans. Of the latter, the High Chancellor's are both an almost hypnotizing shade of violet-blue – and yet, he barely notices their beauty at the moment due to the very obvious tension and anxiety she is not even attempting to hide. This is a powerful woman, unaccustomed to feeling as powerless as she does right now – and one who is extremely concerned about the people for whom she is responsible.

He knows the feeling; one kindred spirit recognizes another, in these circumstances.

"Your Highness, the _Enterprise_ has been sent with orders to assist you in any way possible, within the full limits that Federation quarantine protocols permit." He hopes it hasn't come to a planet-wide quarantine just yet; that would mean news has been far delayed in reaching the 'Fleet of this outbreak's severity.

 _"We are grateful for your assistance, Captain. The plague is spreading, with no real control in sight,"_ she continues without preamble, her expression betraying anxiety and no little fear. _"Already half the population is on the verge of panic. The ports are closed, of course, but still teeming with those colonists who, despite the request of Federation leaders to remain in their homes, are insistent upon evacuating before they discover who will be the next household to fall."_

"Highness, we will do all we can; but first, my teams will need to assess the situation as Federation Medical protocol dictates. You have had your own medical teams working on the situation, I presume?"

 _"Around the clock, Captain. They have turned up no useful information save the knowledge that apparently the virus runs its course in the space of a few_ minutes _; it is a very short-lived virus, untraceable for more than an hour after the victim has died. We would term it a poison, were it not obviously a spreading contagion."_

"Such a short life-span would render an organism nearly impossible to study, meaning finding a cure or inoculation against such a biological agent is also nearly impossible," Spock interjects quietly from his right.

 _"And it means that it's a formidable biological weapon, Commander, whether that was its original intent or not,"_ Ma'arta nods, acknowledging and including the Vulcan in her words. _"We have no suggestion regarding its origin or its treatment, only the knowledge that it is spreading from house to house, seemingly at random."_

"We still have to check in with the colonists on C-2 and C-3, Highness," Jim says, glancing down for reference to the data-padd he holds, on it the information that had automatically been sent to the _Enterprise_ from Cerulea Prime the moment long-range contact was made by his Communications Chief. "With your permission, I will leave a medical team with your scientists to review the known information and see how much progress we can make as to a cure. Perhaps our knowledge of more available Federation medical equipment will be able to assist where less advanced methods may not have been available to you."

 _"Your medical staff, Captain Kirk, will be welcome; we would never be so foolish as to turn away assistance of any kind. But I will not deceive you; the virus seems to strike at random, and we have not been able to identify the method of transmission. Even with what protection our science domes can offer, they may not be entirely safe,"_ the High Chancellor says quietly.

Jim looks up from the padd, eyes grim after viewing the new message Uhura had silently forwarded to it. "They'll be safer on your planet than on C-2 or C-3, Highness. It appears that the plague counts there have nearly doubled or tripled, respectively, in the last two days. One-third of the colonists are now dead or dying, and Command is standing by with orders and _en route_ transport ships for a possible widescale evacuation of Cerulea Prime, if we can't find a remedy in the next twenty-four hours. We cannot allow this to continue. If it isn't controlled, we will be cutting off C-2 and C-3 from the rest of the system with a Federation bio-contaminant barricade until it is."

The Gra'aitian ruler's eyes lower, blinking slowly three times in her race's traditional gesture of respect for the dead. Then she looks up, determination showing in her stately features. _"Captain, this colony has been invaluable both to my people and yours for scientific and sociological study; to be forced to evacuate at this juncture would be disastrous. It would set my people's medico-scientific discoveries back at least two decades, and your Federation would lose a valuable scientific outpost in this sector."_

"Frankly, Your Highness, I would not blame your people for being _suspicious_ of the Federation, as we're both aware there has been some… _friction,_ shall we say, between your native scientists and the bigwigs from 'Fleet Medical who have visited periodically for inspections," Jim replies, raising an eyebrow at the woman.

He may not the best diplomat in the galaxy, but brutal honesty even toward his own seems to carry with it a weight of respect among those he encounters; even Spock can't deny the fact of that. He needs to know if she's actually as amiable as she seems to be, or if there's any sort of resentment brewing down there on Cerulea Prime before he decides to send a landing party down. The reports he dug up on the previous diplomatic incidents had seemed innocuous enough, just the usual spats between civilians and officials – honestly, he's had worse aboard his own ship with asshats in the brass who think they know how to run a starship better than his crew – but just the same, he has to pursue every angle.

He's been under too many shrinks not to be a decent one himself, when it comes down to it.

But Ma'arta's thin smile turns into a twitch of knowing amusement, and he can see the dangerous edge in it is as much a caution to him as it is a gesture of respect, of recognition. One protective leader to another, a silent acknowledgment that they will go to bat for their own people before bowing to an outside force. She cares too much about her people to betray his.

_"Were destruction of this colony the Federation's desire for some mad reason, Captain, there are certainly less elaborate ways of going about it, as I am sure you know. I am quite certain there still exist secret branches in the 'Fleet which would be quite capable of erasing a simple colony's existence were that actually their goal, by methods which are far less likely to be traced back to a Federation origin. It simply is not logical, Captain. Surely it would be less work to simply torpedo the subterranean polar chasm and permit the ensuing global reaction to engulf the planet in fire and water, than to pick off my people by twos and threes."_

She has a point. And it didn't occur to him until now, but surely the 'Fleet itself wouldn't be responsible for this? They stamped out all of Section 31, didn't they? And 31 wasn't experimenting with _biological_ weaponry, were they? Just advanced technology?

_"And to experiment with a biological weapon on a race such as ours, who have much to offer as a hub of scientific research – and a chief planetary member with key ambassadorial delegates on the Presidential advisory committee? No, Captain. I blame no one in the Federation for this, you may rest easy on that point. I cannot speak for all of my people, but those I trust and those on my science committees feel the same."_

"Very good. Then we will make all haste to help in any way we can, Your Highness."

_"You have my word, Captain, your people will be as safe as possible with my staff. Please send down your team when ready. I will have my Minister of Science send you coordinates well within the shielded scientific domes; will that satisfy you as to their safety?"_

"It will," he replies with perfect courtesy. "My Chief Science Officer Commander Spock, and my Chief Medical Officer Lieutenant-Commander McCoy, will be heading the party. They are experts in their fields, Highness; please rest assured that we will find a way to stop this." A rash promise, but then again he has both Spock and Bones on it, so maybe not so rash after all. "Are you in need of any supplies? Rations, replicating units, medical supplies?"

_"Negative, Captain. My people are not prone to panic; though uneasy, they are for the majority content to wait for circumstances to improve or for permission to evacuate in an orderly fashion. Those who are inciting panic are the exceptions, not the rule."_

"Good." He forces back a shudder at the knowledge of what atrocities a panicking populace can commit in circumstances like these. "Quarantine panic is your worst enemy right now, Highness, not the plague."

 _"I am aware, Captain."_ The woman's eyes shift slightly to one side, and she beckons one slender hand. A young Gra'aitian male appears, bowing to her and then turning toward the screen. _"Garr, my Minister of Sciences,"_ she introduces to the Bridge.

 _"Enterprise, we are relieved by your presence,"_ Garr speaks sincerely. _"I have sent transporter coordinates to your Transporter Operator as well as your First Officer; once you have verified their location as well within the scientific domes, we would welcome your presence to pool our knowledge."_

"Then we will keep you waiting no longer, Minister. Your Highness."

The woman bows her head in customary farewell, and the screen returns to its starry scape, an automatic dimmer over the window to somewhat polarize the brilliant blue star's light.

"Coordinates are well within the protection of the domes, Captain," Spock reports, handing him a data-padd with the location marked on it, showing them in proximity to the royal palace within the capital city.

"Good. Get your team together and beam down there to do a recon; we'll be back for you in twenty-four hours, after we make contact with C-3 and C-2. And Spock," he calls, as the Vulcan nods and moves toward the lift.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Try to play nice with Bones, will you?"

He receives a scalding look of disdain that on anyone else would be insubordinate, and then Spock is gone. Chuckling briefly, he returns his attention to the notes he's making for his preliminary report. Unfortunately, the information seems to be grim and getting grimmer, and he does not much look forward to speaking with C-3's president or the Diplomatic Council of C-2 about the condition of their respective planetoid colonies. The fact that each has been settled by a different Federation planetary world means a trifecta of diplomatic nightmares for him to try to mediate, not to mention the lurking nightmare that hovers just out of sight, the all-too-familiar knowledge of what could happen to a panicking planet that's on the verge of a wholescale plague. Thank goodness for Uhura helping to navigate the intricacies of communication that escape the universal translator, because a panicking populace is one that does not communicate well to begin with.

And these populaces are panicking.

* * *

Twenty-two hours later, they return to pick up their team from Cerulea Prime. Bones elects to remain on the surface with two of his best technicians, working alongside the Gra'aitian scientists in the protected laboratories, and they set the _Enterprise_ 's orbit to remain in geo-sync with the laboratories' daytime hours. The Cerulean days are only about two hours longer than the standard ship's day, which isn't enough to become a real problem to anyone's circadian rhythm just yet, but knowing his people he'll have to watch it and make sure nobody tries to pull a stupid stunt and be a hero without enough sleep in a few days' time.

Two hours following their return to Cerulea Prime, Jim is approaching the precipice of a migraine at breakneck speed. His sleep was restless last night, due to not being able to shut his freaking _brain_ off thanks to Cerulea plague planets and parallel universes and Q and did he say plague planets? It's now ship's afternoon and they're no closer to answers than they were yesterday.

Spock finds him in a pathetically miserable state, staring at the computer monitor in his cabin as if it's magically going to stop blurring. Roughly two dozen padds lie haphazardly about on the desk, armrests, and a good part of the floor around his feet, and he wouldn't be surprised if they're multiplying like tribbles under there somewhere.

He squints up, and then blinks as Spock somewhat awkwardly holds up a hypospray.

"…Thanks?"

"Your migraine prescription, sir."

"Oh my _god_ , I could kiss you." He snatches the cartridge out of mid-air and depresses it into his neck, hoping his head doesn't like, fall off before it takes effect. Tosses the spent cartridge in the recycling can under the desk, then does a double-take. "Wait, Bones is still on the surface. How did you – you know what, never mind, I don't want to know. You two are _creepy_ sometimes."

That gets him an eyeroll, which he takes great pleasure in ignoring. It really is creepy, sometimes. He wouldn't be surprised if they have their own Jim-code he knows nothing about, likely come up with while he was spending too many hours regrowing nerves and blood cells in Starfleet Medical after The Incident.

"Anything go wrong on the away mission?" he asks, furiously scribbling his name on yet another freaking report, and for gods' sake why does he have to sign like four hundred of these every day. He needs a digi-stamp or something.

"If by 'wrong' you mean _unanticipated_ , then nothing more serious than Dr. McCoy's vomiting after the transporter beam deposited us on the surface. As you suspected, apparently Cerulea Prime is subject to unexpectedly frequent bursts of magnetic interference in the upper atmosphere; we were force to remain in the beam eleven-point-two-five seconds longer than expected."

"Poor Bones." He scribbles his name once more, then throws the padd into the good-enough-for-now pile. "That interference isn't going to have any permanent effect on transports to and from the surface, is it?"

"Negative, it is not at sufficient ionization levels to require a shuttle departure. Engineer Leslie is monitoring the interference levels but I do not anticipate any difficulties."

"Good. Keep me posted. So what did you find out about the plague?"

"As the Gra'aitians had already indicated," Spock begins, hands clasped loosely behind his back, "the plague is a silent, deadly killer. Symptoms appear in the form of shortness of breath and blood pooling just below the surface of the skin. This is followed shortly by asphyxiation and/or bleeding out from the facial orifices."

That gets his attention well enough. "Okay, I'm no immunologist but something tells me that's no ordinary virus, Spock."

"That seems to be the general consensus, sir."

"Are we talking a weaponized virus? A bio-weapon? Because that has seriously different diplomatic repercussions than, say, a naturally mutated strain of some pathogen that's come from outside our galaxy."

"That, we do not know at this time."

Right, diplomatic repercussions for any hint of committing to an accusation. "Yeah, I get it. Anyway, right now? I'm more concerned with the possibility of a cure, Spock. These reports from the surface aren't exactly encouraging."

"Unfortunately, in that we are in complete agreement, Captain. It is virtually impossible to produce a cure, in its loosest medico-scientific sense, without an intensive study of a freshly-exposed victim. This is, of course, nearly as impossible, since victims seem to expire within minutes, perhaps seconds, of exposure, and as all signs of the virus seem to vanish within an hour after death, the viral matter either broken down in the bloodstream beyond detection or having escaped the body through blood expulsion. The Gra'aitians have gathered what data they can, by what methods they can; but there is only so much which can be done in such a situation."

"What exactly _do_ we know?"

"As a starting point, the affliction at least does not appear to be contagious by touch or saliva, as a much greater portion of the population would be expiring in public areas. That coupled with their technical data may be enough for us to synthesize a possible vaccine at some later date should we be able to successfully intercept an infected victim, but an entirely successful _anti-agent_ is hardly likely. We do not even know for certain the contagion is a virus; we cannot engineer an anti-agent without knowing this for certain. Anti-virus, anti-venin, anti-bodies – all have vastly different structures which will take days to perfect for a carbon-based life-form. Days which we likely do not have, given Starfleet's intent to evacuate this sector to prevent the spread of the contagion."

He nods absently, pinching his forehead. It's been more than a day, and it's still shaping up to be a colossal mess with no real end in sight.

Spock shifts slightly, as if debating whether or not to continue, and when Jim cocks his head in question, obviously decides to take the plunge, if hesitantly. "In our brief investigation of the planet, I found one aspect of this mission to be far more concerning than its scientific details, Captain."

He lowers his hand from his forehead, eyes narrowed. "Coming from you, that's a little alarming."

"I have no real scientific basis upon which to build my…conjectures." This, said as if it is a horrendous crime against science and logic. Which, in fairness, to a Vulcan it probably is.

That doesn't put his mind at ease.

"You and I both know the value of human instinct to balance out that logic, Mr. Spock. We'd both probably be dead by now if we didn't. What did you pick up on down there that you didn't put in here?"

Spock's weight shifts ever so slightly, one of his tells. "The data is in the reports, Captain; though perhaps none have drawn the conclusions that I have."

"Obviously. Have a little pity on the inferior human brain and spell it out for me, yeah?"

Spock gives him a look, then one that's refreshingly annoyed enough to reassure him his XO doesn't really consider him an idiot, and continues readily enough. "The pattern, Captain," he says, and then shakes his head slightly, as if to correct himself. "Or one could as accurately term it, the lack of one."

"And you call _that_ making things clearer for me?"

"There is no discernable pattern at first glance, among those affected by the contagion. The plague, as the Gra'aitian people are terming it, seems to be entirely randomized; those affected have no connections with each other that I can discover – and I have been cross-referencing victims for the past ninety-three-point-four minutes – with one significant exception. A pattern _within_ that randomness that has high significance."

Jim sits up straighter in his chair, headache forgotten. Spock's hunches are rare, but rarely without merit. And to have his unflappable First up in arms over it? It's got to be whopping important.

"And this exception is?"

Spock looks directly at him, clear unease visible in his eyes. "Captain, the plague apparently is not transmittable by touch. And yet, in each case, when one member of the household was affected, the _entire_ household was affected."

His mouth goes dry, thinking of those implications.

" _Incommunicable by touch_ , and yet in each case, whole families died, Captain," Spock reiterates, troubled. "It does not seem possible, but in each case it is true: there is not one documented instance where a family member survived an infected household. Even among the most contagious of disease outbreaks throughout history, there have always been those unique few who for reasons unknown possess statistical immunity. But this? It goes against all principles of medical science, Jim. It simply is not natural."

He swallows. "Do you understand what you're implying, Spock?"

"I do. But facts are facts, Captain. And the fact remains, that the odds of this being of natural causes are too astronomical to calculate. Doctor McCoy shares my opinion."

"Talk about odds too astronomical to calculate," he mutters, running a hand over his face.

This is bad.

"So what you're saying is…if it's such a rapid killer, then…" He waves a hand in a vague, helpless gesture, thinking of the unseen horrors transpiring below. "It just somehow gets into the house, and the whole family dies before they know what's happening?"

Spock nods. "There is no pattern to the deaths on the planet, no link between them. It is an entirely random, happen-chance scattering of victims. And yet, once the deaths begin, they do not cease until every member of that particular household is dead."

"But that can't be possible; there has to be some kind of indication –" _Wait_. His eyes widen.

"Precisely my thoughts, Captain. A lack of pattern in something which has every indication of being a potential bio-weapon, is in itself an indication."

"This isn't just a bio-weapon, targeting a particular people or even targeting the Federation," he supplies. "This is deliberate, cold-blooded, indiscriminate inducement of terror. It's the precursor to a war crime, with the added benefit of eliminating a good chunk of the population before landing the real attack."

"Indeed. And the Federation does not have the most trustworthy track record in preventing such incidents of…targeted selection."

His head jerks up so hard something snaps in his neck, and he doesn't need a mirror to know his face has gone chalky-white. Spock's expression hasn't changed; still perfectly neutral, eyes very carefully disinterested.

Jim knows better. He can't be fooled, not now – not after all this time.

And also after all this time, he's well aware Spock can read him like a neon sign – and he's completely ignoring that sign right now.

"You're on thin ice, Commander."

"I merely stated a fact, Captain."

"Bullshit. I know information-fishing when I see it, and you _suck_ at it, by the way. It's completely irrelevant to this mission." He doesn't bother acting like they don't both know which elephant in the room they're talking about.

Spock takes only a small step forward, but Jim feels suddenly trapped between his desk and the wall. "It is most certainly relevant, if it is emotionally compromising the captain of this ship."

 _Very_ funny. He shoots his First a sour look, rubbing uneasily at his aching head. "Look, Spock. I don't care what Q said. It was a freaking _long_ time ago. And yeah, I still may have a nightmare or two about it once in a while, I might even take a swing at somebody under the right circumstances if they push the right buttons on the wrong day. But I'm not _compromised_ over it. Seriously. It's been long enough, and it's not like worse hasn't happened in the galaxy since then. You and I _both_ have seen so much worse since then."

Spock inclines his head in silent acquiescence to the horrible truth.

"Look, you don't think I'd have been able to pass the 'Fleet psych evals if I was a PTSD basket case, now would I?" (2)

"I do not believe so," Spock replies with perfect equanimity, "nor do I believe you are compromised at the present moment. It is, however, my duty as your fr…First Officer, to ascertain your emotional state."

"Oh?" Something is ringing a suspiciously adorable little bell at the back of his mind, and Spock's fidgeting might have something to do with it. "Really? You sure you're not just _worried_ about me, Spock? Sure Q didn't just freak you out a little by spilling my dirty dark secret past?"

"I feel no such emotions, Captain," is the hurried response, and ladies and gentlemen, here we have a fine example of what we call Vulcan backpedaling.

"Yes, well, thank you anyway," he chuckles, and relaxes for the first time since he started on this paperwork. "And for pity's sake sit down before you give me a literal pain in the neck."

Spock hesitates, then sits on the chair across the desk, after first gingerly moving the padd and apple cores that have accumulated there in the last three hours.

"That's better. Now, Science Officer. If this is a deliberately-spread plague, we need motive, method, and identity."

"I agree." Spock deftly procures a blank padd from some unknown location in the clutter that hides his desk from view, and removes the stylus. "Method being the easiest of those three factors to determine; motive should then follow and after that identity should be fairly straightforward to ascertain."

"Method is probably pretty simple," Jim muses, tossing another apple core at the wall recycling chute. It misses by a meter, and he hears a faint sigh of reproach from across the desk. Mental note to pick it up so his poor yeoman doesn't feel like she has to clean up after even more of his messes. "If it's quick enough to disperse before it can even really be observed, and kill in that short span of time, it would have to be airborne with some force and then inhaled, wouldn't you think?"

"I would," Spock agrees. "The only other alternative is administration directly into the bloodstream; but this method would not be possible nor practical when eliminating multiple targets in a small span of time. It is impossible to administer a hypospray without direct contact with a patient, and impractical to do so to multiple targets at once. Besides, according to Dr. McCoy's preliminary reports," here he taps the padd with the stylus, "there are no indications of any outside violence to the victims. In any case."

Jim takes the padd and scrolls briefly through it with the practiced ease of one who does mountains of paperwork and can cut through the extraneous to discover the vital. "Add to that, the fact that they seem to have died primarily from asphyxiation or drowning – aspiration on their own blood? That's an awful way to go – and inhalation seems to be the logical method. Something in that stuff seriously screwed up their pulmonary and respiratory systems."

Spock pulls up another report and pushes it across the desk with an air of satisfaction. "That was the doctor's conclusion, corroborated by the Gra'aitian scientists. Not all of the victims suffered the same effects of facial bleeding or fluid in the lungs; that appears to be a difference in physiology solely relegated to the victims on C-3, who have a much higher iron concentration in the blood. Those on Cerulea Prime simply appear to have asphyxiated within minutes. Whatever the contagion is, it appears to have severely blistered the lungs and throat and in some cases actually penetrated the muscle walls of those organs upon inhalation."

"Jesus."

"It is not a weapon of a civilized world."

"No kidding."

"The most likely conclusion is that whatever the agent is, it is in the form of a gas, possibly chemical in origin. Similar to the drastic methods of execution currently used in Storenti prisons, for example. Odorless, colorless, but capable of killing within minutes."

He can't help but shiver, which only causes the pounding behind his eyes to increase. "It's inhumane even in that context," he snaps, scowling at the reports.

"Agreed. But as a weapon of mass murder, it is highly effective." Spock's expression changes slightly, though he makes no further comment upon the matter; genocide is a crime they are both far too well-acquainted with, and some skeletons are much better off remaining hidden in the darkest closets. "Method being established tentatively, then, the motive remains our next priority to establish."

"Exactly. Why go this far to instigate terror on a non-major Federation star system? So far it hasn't escalated into an entire population being decimated; just every day more households dying with no explanation. It's almost as if whoever is behind it only wants to stir up terror instead of killing widescale." He frowns and leans back in his chair, mind racing. "It'd be much easier to just beam drums of the virus, or whatever it is, into every main spaceport on the planet, instead of just popping a canister or whatever into scattered homes. It's just not the methodology of terrorists."

Spock's eyes gleam in appreciation. "Quite correct; the operational procedures are not those of anti-Federation terrorists; and as each of the Cerulean planetoids is entirely self-governing and in fact comparatively sparsely populated due to being small, experimental science colonies, no local terrorist would have motive enough to perform such an elaborate act without much greater, far-reaching motive that spans multiple planetoids in the system."

"The colony isn't sitting on some rich mineral deposit, is it? Klingons have been known to do some weird things to beat out a Federation colony's claim on stuff like that."

"Negative." Spock shakes his head and pulls up another report. "That was also one of the first theories I investigated and summarily discarded. Cerulea Prime is there simply as a colony for the Gra'aitian science division to work uninhibited, studying the effects of a blue star's centrality as opposed to a red star's, as in their own solar system. It holds nothing of material or scientific value, as a planet."

"What about C-3 or C-2? If one of them is, the other two could just be a blind to cover for whatever's happening on the real target?"

Spock's disgruntled look is answer enough.

"C-2 is barely more than a glorified outpost settled by the Katarrans and a few other species that travel in and out from the shipping lines, delivering supplies to the rest of the system. C-3 is like, as basic a Federation colony as you can get, populated by humans and a few species of intelligent but not sentient animals. What connects them, and why would someone want to start a reign of terror on both of them?"

Spock shifts slightly in his chair, eyebrows drawn as he frowns at the padd before him.

Jim raises a brow of his own. "Spill," he orders.

"I…should prefer to wait for more data before voicing my speculation," the Vulcan admits, eyes betraying his discomfort.

Jim sighs; he'd thought they were past this. It'll be like pulling teeth to get it out of Spock if he's really as unsure about his theory as he looks, and it probably won't hurt to let him do a few tests. God knows the guy loves his tests. But just the same…

"Does this theory you're working on pose any danger to my ship if you are correct, Commander?" he asks directly, for that is something he can't – won't – cave on.

A faint flush colors his First's face, and he slowly nods. "Affirmative; I had not considered that. I then have no choice but to share my speculations."

"None," he agrees, but not unkindly. "And you of all people should know I'm never going to discount speculation, no matter how wild it might be."

"It is…slightly far-fetched, sir. But there is one peculiarity regarding both C-2 and C-3, which they share with only one other of the planets orbiting Cerulea."

He sits up straighter, mind focusing sharply as the pain of his headache receded under the influx of adrenaline. "That third planet being Cerulea Prime?"

"Negative, Captain, which is why the computer did not suggest it as a commonality for consideration in original briefing. Hence my hesitance to suggest it as a point of importance. The third planet is C-5, one of the smallest of the colonies, inhabited by only a few hundred colonists of the Tcha'in species."

"Hm. Okay, go on."

Spock looks up from a diagram and schematics, frowning slightly. "Both C-2 and C-3 have the standard atmospheres in which their respective colonies may live in relative comfort for the inhabiting species. However, surrounding both is a strong magnetic solar wind-barrier from the blue sun's ionic fluctuations. This barrier would, at this time of the solar cycle, be more than sufficient to disrupt all sensors immediately outside the planet's outer atmosphere."

He sits back, brow wrinkling as he absorbs this information. "But their communications are fine; we talked to them earlier today," he points out. "They even beamed all their scientific information in packet form to us without any difficulties."

Spock shakes his head. "I do not refer to their basic manipulation of air-waves, Captain; they would never even notice any effect on the planet unless the wind-barrier grew particularly turbulent. Such a barrier can also be compensated for in communications and transmissions if one is aware of the barrier's ionic and magnetic readings; we do so regularly when communicating through subspace with Starfleet Command. What I wish to point out, is that such a barrier could, more than conceivably…" here he hesitates, but Jim motions for him to continue, "…it could conceivably mask a ship on the far side of the planet or over one of its magnetic poles, Captain. And the _Enterprise_ and planetary sensors would never register its presence."

Jim shoots upright in his chair, sending a cold coffee cup rocking precariously on the desk. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"Negative. Theoretically, it is possible."

"Just to be clear, you're talking about a natural cloak," he specifies, eyes glinting with anticipation. (3)

"A very simple one, but quite effective; we employed the same technique by utilizing the interference from Saturn's rings just prior to beaming aboard the _Narada_ several years ago. With a synchronized orbit and careful maneuvering, protected by the solar wind-barrier a ship could be in synchronous orbit around either C-2 or C-3, and we would never see her. Our sensors would never register her presence, and neither would any technology which the planetoids themselves possess. She would, in essence, be a ghost ship."

"You're suggesting this, because you think some ship is lurking around up there and just, what – beaming the virus down to the planets?"

"Or at the least monitoring the situation with the appropriate scientific personnel. It seems more likely than any other explanation, though I will admit to a certain degree of skepticism with conjectures unsupported by facts."

"No, it makes perfect sense…and we'd be idiots to not check it out. We don't have all the time in the world to sit around and hope we can catch someone in the act." A sudden thought occurs to him, and he looks across the desk. "But wouldn't we register the ship when it moves back and forth between C-2 and C-3, since the winds only sweep over the top of the planets' atmospheres? The moment it's no longer protected by the interference, we would register it on our scanners."

"We would," Spock acknowledges. "However, that could easily be rectified by simply remaining in orbit around whatever planet the ship currently orbits, safely within the masking zone. I would suggest maintaining our position here over Cerulea Prime, as its close proximity to C2 allows for long-range sensor sweeps to be made without our breaking orbit and leaving the medical team below. With long-range sensors set to sweep the area surrounding C-2, we should be able to immediately detect the departure of a ship from its atmosphere, even cloaked, as its ion trail will immediately set off our sensor alerts. And if, in three days' time, no further outbreaks are present on C-3, then we may have a more plausible hypothesis upon which to build."

Jim nodded. "Make it happen, Mr. Spock."

"Aye, sir."

"And after you do that, get Bones and the rest of our men back up here once they've gotten all they can from those labs; protected domes or not, it's making me nervous."

"Affirmative."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Seven  
> (1) The Gorns appeared in the TOS episode Arena, an intriguing episode for many reasons (outside of the hilarious Gorn costume that's since become a painfully iconic piece for the series). It's one of the few times we get to see Kirk having a 'genius moment' that has nothing to do with space but rather science; we also get to see Sulu in command while Kirk's on the surface of a planet, a rare thing in TOS. It's also one of the few times he directly goes against Spock's advice in a tactical moment, and one of the few times he makes a huge tactical error against an alien species – rectifying it barely in the nick of time when they do finally manage to communicate properly.  
> (2) In reference to Tarsus IV, this is why I feel it's been overused (by myself included) in fanfiction and so I usually go a non-mainstream route if possible, as I try to do with many mainstream tropes.   
> (3) While cloaking devices were not commonly seen until the TNG timeline, they were known in the TOS timeline, introduced along with the Romulan race in the 14th episode, The Balance of Terror. Kirk and Spock were also sent undercover to steal a new and improved cloaking device for the Federation from the Romulans in Season Two's The Enterprise Incident. Cloaking technology was a point of contention in the TOS timeline until the Federation signed an agreement in 2311 to no longer develop or study it, allowing the Romulan and Klingon Empires that tactical advantage over the Federation's advanced technology.  
> According to Memory Alpha, there is a graphic somewhere in Star Trek Into Darkness stating that the Federation in the AOS timeline had agreed to this ban as early as 2259, presumably because the tensions between the Federation and those two empires were considerably higher after the events triggered by Nero.


	8. Chapter Eight

**_Chapter Eight_ **

He's never done helplessness very well.

Three days is not a long time, as anyone on a three-day shore leave can attest. And yet, barely two of those three days have passed, and he's already climbing the walls from inactivity. There has been no change in anything, anywhere, and what is the freaking point of their presence here if it's not going to either provoke their unseen enemy to action or help make scientific progress. He supposes he should be lucky that they got those three days from Command, given that the original deadline had been just one – but seriously, if something doesn't happen he's going to go absolutely nuts here.

Spock's matter-of fact pointing out that scientific progress is thankfully _not_ measured by Jim's characteristically dramatic definition of significant breakthroughs but by systematic elimination of variables in their search for an anti-agent of the contagion, is not helpful.

Uhura laughs in his face when he grumbles something to this effect over dinner on the second evening, late in gamma shift after most of the officers have deserted the Mess for the evening's recreation or for delta shift.

" _Merde_ , is _that_ why he's been so unbearable all day?" She snorts into her teacup, eyes rolling at him over the rim. "And here I thought it was because he has to spend the overnight shift planetside with McCoy."

He glares at her over top of the padd he's scribbling notes on for Scotty. "That was his choice, not mine."

"That bad, hm."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He dots an _I_ a little viciously and punches to the next page. Honestly, why can his Chief Engineer, one of the top five most brilliant minds on the ship, not use the freaking computer to check his own spelling.

"Oh, please. You know you're about due for a blowup. This thing with Q has you both on a razor's edge." She pushes the dinner tray away slightly and leans back, arms folded. "I kind of miss the old days when we could just lock you both in a briefing room with a sound dampening field and let the dust settle afterwards."

He winces, remembering a few of those arguments in the early days, when he was much younger and stupider and it seemed like no matter what he did, somehow Spock ended up pushing his buttons without meaning to. And in all fairness, he gave as good as he got.

"Look, nothing's wrong," he says, running a hand down his face. He scribbles a final note to Scotty and signs off on the report, then clicks the padd off. Not seeing a yeoman anywhere in the Mess, he places it to the side for safekeeping until he can get it back down to Engineering. "Command is just breathing down my neck for a progress report and I don't have one to give them. He's trying to figure out if there's a way to at least give them a scientific progress report until we can produce a tactical one."

"What if we don't get one," she asks pointedly.

"Then we have to quarantine the system and evacuate Cerulea Prime. And that's an undertaking the _Enterprise_ is not prepared for. Not to mention the disasters it will create on the satellite planets, both diplomatically and medically. I need you to have some magic on the back burner, communication-wise, in case I need to start drafting those communiques to tell C-2 and C-3 we're basically abandoning them to their fate and whatever help the Federation is willing to give."

She nods reluctantly. "Hopefully it won't come to that."

"Agreed. But I know how Command operates," he says, a little bitterly. "And we still have no way of completely ruling out the possibility of this being something like a rogue faction of Section 31 origin."

"Surely not. What would be the point?"

"I don't know. I really don't. We don't have a motive, other than the possibility that this is a precursor to an invasion of some kind. But it doesn't make sense; this system isn't a main traffic hub, and if you're trying to make a political statement of terror you would attack a more primary Federation-based target. This system is relatively insignificant."

"Obviously not, we just don't know the reason it _is_ significant."

"You see the problem. I wouldn't be surprised if we were ordered away from the system as soon as they quarantine it," he replies, thinking. "If it is some renegade off-the-books faction, they'll want the survivors of 31 as far away as possible."

Uhura looks unhappy. "I knew Admiral Barnett at the Academy, she was a damn good instructor, Captain. I'd like to think she took the cleanup of 31 seriously."

"So would I. But we both know better than to blindly trust anyone out here."

"Agreed. I'll keep an ear on the upper official channels for the next few days to see if I pick up on any chatter about the system."

"Only if you can do it without getting traced," he warns, because the last thing they need is another reason to have Command's eyes on them.

"Really, sir." Her voice is as dry as a Vulcan's, and he hides a grin in his coffee cup.

* * *

The next day drags by with equal slowness, the only excitement being a brief interlude in which something _explodes_ in Engineering, obviously non-critical as the alarms are shut off almost before he even sees the automated alert flicker across his padd and then disappear.

At this point, he doesn't bother asking unless there are injuries reported; he's learned the value of plausible deniability, and more importantly he's learned the depth of his Chief Engineer's loyalty. The man would do nothing to endanger the ship, and if he did, he'd be the first to admit it so that it could be fixed.

Also, the last time he went down there to investigate a suspicious report, there was some even more suspicious panicking going on near one of the aft storage compartments, and if Scotty really thinks Bones is keeping it secret the fact that they're experimenting with making their own hooch down there, the man's actually not as bright as his eval scores show.

But unfortunately, this explosion has thrown up enough automated alerts that someone of command status has to go down there, and they have a briefing in less than twenty minutes with Medical for an update on the plague situation. Also, it's about damn time his First Officer gets his head back in the game and stops avoiding Engineering like it's a plague zone itself.

Said First Officer is not happy to be conscripted into an inspection of the section of pipe which has ruptured, so much so that any redshirt who ventures to approach their group suddenly seems to remember he has urgent business on the other side of the Engineering Bay, scuttling away like a horde of Arcturian gnats is after him.

"Aye, they should've been replaced by now, sir, but there was no indication of stressors and Starbase Eleven has a far superior facility. I thought for sure an' certain there was no harm in waiting another week or two until we docked there to replace all the valves in this section. We have been tight on the budget and low on spare parts since that incident with the tribbles, sir."

"Don't remind me." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Is this anything vital?"

"Negative, Captain, I would never have risked that. 'Tis the drainage system to…" Scott glances down, taps a diagram, "this one, to Shuttle Bay Four. And if this one just blew then the rest likely need replaced as well, but none of them are vital machinery, sir."

He pauses for one second to wonder why there's a drainage system even in those bays, if they open into empty space, and then discards the thought because, well. He has people for that. They're already two minutes late now for that briefing anyway. "Fine, just…keep it together, until we get to 'Base Eleven. And keep a better eye on the rest of these couplings, I don't want anyone getting hurt down here over something this stupid."

"Aye, sir." Scott has the grace to look properly chastened. "'Twon't happen again, sir."

"Good." He glances sideways at his XO, who has been tense as a granite statue at his shoulder this entire time, and then looks back at their CE, who is busy scribbling on his padd. "I also want a full diagnostic, both digital and visual, of this system. Even if it isn't vital, I want it done in the next twenty-four hours."

Scott looks a little crestfallen, but nods readily enough. "'Tis a good idea, sir. I'll have someone on it before the day is over."

"Good. When you're finished, call Mr. Spock down here to go over the results." He hides his amusement at the death-glare he can almost _feel_ being aimed at his head, and shoots Scotty a reassuring look when the man eyes them warily. "Problem, Commander?"

"Negative."

The word is sharper than a diamond-shard, glancing almost physically off him as he turns to leave, patting the blue-clad shoulder briefly on his way by. "Come on, we're already late for that briefing. God knows what Bones has told everyone in there by now."

He hears footsteps rapid behind him, and an almost inaudible exhalation as the doors shut on the Bay, depositing them in the bustling corridor. They're booking it down the corridor, not quite running but definitely not dawdling as they head through the maze of cross-corridors and junctions to the port-side turbolift, and he half-wonders if the other universe's Jim Kirk were a better captain just because his ship wasn't so freaking _huge_.

"Captain, Commander." A quad of blue-clad Science personnel greet them as they hurry around one last corner. The young technicians scatter sideways in both directions to let their superiors pass more rapidly.

Spock merely nods in solemn greeting as they scoot inside the lift behind a duo of redshirts, but Jim manages to shoot them all an apologetic smile before the turbolift doors close behind them.

"Why do we only have two access points to these on each deck, again?"

"A significant flaw in engineering design, sir."

"No offense, gentlemen," Jim adds, grinning, when he sees one of the young techs glance incredulously over his shoulder.

The other laughs. "None taken, sir. Would prefer myself to not have to walk six corridors to my cabin every night." The lift pings briefly, and the two step out, nodding to their superiors as they head down Deck Seven's bunking corridors.

"Computer, resume. Briefing Room Two."

_"Acknowledged."_

"So." He side-eyes his First, who is just as silent as he's been the last thirty minutes. "Engineering."

"Sir?"

"If you _Sir_ me one more time today, I swear to God, Spock." He shakes his head with a sigh, biting back his frustration. It's just not productive, for either of them.

God knows he's the last one qualified to call one of his people out for having issues. He still hates riding in these things, the glassed-in walls are just too freakishly similar to the half-remembered dreams he still has when his mind betrays him.

Sighing, he gestures for his First to precede him into the corridor as the doors open, and follows a moment later. This is a discussion for another day, one when they are not embroiled in the midst of a triplicate threat from the poor beleaguered planets in this system. He has a briefing to run.

* * *

"So we were right, then, is what I'm hearing."

"Not necessarily, Captain," Spock's cautionary tone is more annoying than anything else, because he wants answers and he isn't getting them as quickly as he needs them. "There is now corroborating evidence to support our theory, but no definitive proof."

"I dunno what other proof you need," McCoy retorts sourly. "The outbreak stopped completely on all three planets, basically the minute we synced an orbit around Cerulea Prime. That's not a naturally occurring phenomenon in pandemic progression, and it can’t be coincidence."

"I never asserted it was, Doctor. However, Starfleet Command will not see the situation as proof of any intentional hostility by parties unknown."

"And we still don't have _any_ idea who's behind it," he finishes, waving a hand to show he gets it. He's just frustrated.

"None. And no real way to discern the presence of a ship hidden at one of Cerulea Prime's magnetic poles short of visual confirmation."

"Which is next to impossible."

"Especially since they're probably cloaked anyway, if the Klingons or Romulans are responsible," Sulu points out. “We just don’t possess that kind of technology.”

He runs a hand over his face. "We expected the attacks on C-2 and C-3 to stop. But why would they stop on Prime, if there's a ship still up there? We can't be that much of a threat, especially given the lack of progress we've made toward a vaccine – much less a cure."

"That is the radical factor in the equation, Captain. The only explanation for the cessation of attacks on Cerulea Prime is our presence here; and yet, whoever our opponent might be, he most certainly possesses the advantage in this situation."

"So why has there been twelve hours without any action? Speculation, Spock?"

"I have none at the present time. However, I believe we may assume that we are under observation, if our surmise is correct regarding a ship's presence at the poles."

"This is not reassuring, Keptin."

"You're telling me, Mr. Chekov. We can't just stay here indefinitely, and I doubt we scared them off." He frowns. "What progress have we made toward a cure, Bones?"

"A cure? I doubt we ever get close enough for a cure." McCoy looks at him, eyes troubled. "The closest we'll ever get would be a vaccine to inoculate the unaffected population, and that's still days away. My staff have eliminated two dozen possibilities so far, all simulations are showing they'd never hold up in a humanoid bloodstream. This thing is…I dunno, it's just too powerful. We're flyin' blind here, Jim."

"Doctor McCoy is correct, Captain. I have had Science Labs Four, Five and Eight engaged in extensive tests upon the very few specimens of the virus we have gathered from the Gra'aitian population, and it appears as if the virus is able to adapt far quicker than any anti-agent, circumventing in mere seconds any treatment which we have attempted."

"And that explains why it's so damn _fast_ , and why there's a zero recovery rate," Bones supplies wearily. "It adapts quicker to a humanoid immune system than anything I've ever seen. We're talking seconds, Jim. No matter how strong the victim is originally, they don't stand a chance under that. It's just _unnatural_."

He lowers his hand slowly. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"That the virus is likely specifically enhanced and engineered to be a nearly instant killer?" Spock shares a glance with their CMO across the table. "This unfortunately is proving to be more and more likely, Captain. Our best efforts have produced a vaccine which lasted thirty seconds against the virus; it simply is too powerful, and able to overwhelm any living system in not much more than those thirty seconds."

"But, sir, doesn't this mean –"

"It means if the Klingons or Romulans are behind this, then we have a definitive declaration of war against the Federation on our hands," Uhura supplies, tone deathly serious. "That's a diplomatic nightmare we are not prepared to engage in, not without a mediating Federation ambassador. What did we walk into here?"

"I wish I knew, Lieutenant. But none of this actually helps with our original mission, which is to prevent the spread of the contagion or to assist in evacuation procedures. We cannot lose sight of that," he says firmly. "Bones, do you have any idea how long it could be before you find _some_ kind of vaccine that can stand against this thing? Or at least a treatment for the infected if we got to them in time?"

"I'm sorry, Jim, I can't. It could be a couple days, it could be a couple weeks – or it could be never, if this thing's been artificially enhanced. We just don't have enough to go on right now, all I can do is work on simulations and the few readings we have from the three victims the Gra'aitians managed to find just before they died. It's delicate work, Jim. Too delicate to be done in a hurry."

"Understood. And you believe finding a cure is impossible?"

Spock glances at the physician and then back at him. "Without new information, Captain, that is correct."

He exhales slowly, brain running through the scenarios he knows will occur when he has to give this report to Command. "We're looking at an evacuation, aren't we."

"That is a premature assumption; however, I believe it would be wise to prepare accordingly."

He swears under his breath. Failure is never pleasant, but it's even more galling on something this important. And evacuation under these uncertain circumstances is going to be a logistical nightmare.

What is really going on here?

* * *

He's not all that surprised, but a little heartsick, to hear early the next day that colony C-5 has now reported in panic to the Federation that there has been an outbreak of the plague in their capital city.

C-5, Spock points out immediately, even before their transmission from Command concludes, is the fourth planet in the system which also holds that masking screen of magnetic solar winds which so characterizes the current affected planetoids. And, what is far more telling, C-5 has in the last twelve hours come within beaming range of Cerulea Prime in its irregular, elliptical orbit around the blue star at the heart of the system.

"They didn't have to move," he says unnecessarily, when confronted with a diagram of the planetary orbits and distance necessary for beaming. "If they're still hiding out here on Prime, they could still perform a long-range beam if needed and hit C-5 without having to move and betray their location."

"Indeed. I believe we may take it as a working hypothesis that there is indeed a ship in a complementary orbit to ours around Cerulea Prime," Spock agrees, casting a glance across the lab table at the grim face of their Chief Medical Officer. "This would also be supporting evidence that the incidents are not being catalyzed by a sentient agent on the planets themselves; it may be an entirely remote task."

"At this point, it doesn't really matter anymore. If we don't find out what's going on and stop it soon, we're gonna have a pandemic on our hands on _each_ planet, Jim," McCoy interjects, pointing at the diagrams. "This is the third day, and a working vaccine isn't anywhere near complete enough to be effective. Besides, even if it was, it'd take at least two weeks to inoculate the entire population of just the three affected planets!"

"Have your teams discovered any new information as to the virus's origin?" Spock inquires.

"Well it's not Terran in origin, I can tell you that," the physician declares with certainty. "And it's not Gra'aitian, obviously. There's no record of anything identical in the Fleet Medical Database. Whoever's utilizing it, they didn't get their medical knowledge from Federation medicine. If it's been artificially engineered I can't see any indications of it in our tests, and something should have shown by now."

"But I thought you said it couldn't be naturally-occurring?" he asks, still bending over the table to look at Spock's computer screen.

McCoy scowls and crosses his arms, tapping the fingers of one hand against his opposing blue sleeve. "It shouldn't be, but it's not showing as artificially engineered either, unless whoever's responsible was able to imitate natural xeno-bio functions to this extent. There are no indicators that it's anything but a mutation."

"Except the methodical terrorization of the colonies," he points out dryly.

"Exactly. It doesn't make any sense. In three days we should have collected more information than we have – but there's just not a lot we can do with what we've got, Jim. We know it attacks the body and instantly begins rewriting the coding of the most important bodily functions; breathing and blood production. But I've never seen anything like it. It's organic, but engineered to be a non-traceable weapon of mass destruction. I feel sick just saying that."

Jim opens his mouth to agree, but is cut off by the whistle of the intra-comm. Uhura's voice sounds slightly strained, and he can tell even before she's finished that she'd like nothing more than to give whoever it is on the line a swift boot. But there is no averting this now, he's delayed a report to Command long enough.

"Is it confidential, Lieutenant?" he asks, glancing around the lab to make sure no junior officers are within hearing. Lab Eight is in the middle of mid-day mess, so there's only a couple of ensigns at a table on the far side of the lab, both busily engaged in whatever project Spock has them working on.

_"Negative, Captain. But it is Priority One. Admiral Cartwright, sir."_

He doesn't really know Cartwright. This might be a good sign or else a really, really bad one. There's not a day goes by, that he doesn't almost physically ache to just talk one more time to Chris Pike.

Admirals Barrett and Komack at least don't loathe him any more, although there are times he suspects that's just guilt because a Starfleet Admiral tried to kill him last time he was on Terra. Archer likes him well enough, has ever since the Academy; but the man still hates Montgomery Scott for the stupid dog-beaming incident and, by extension, basically anyone on the _Enterprise_ except Jim himself.

But an admiral who doesn't know them personally contacting them is rarely a good sign, out here in deep space, and that's when he _isn't_ late with a progress report on a nightmare mission. Spock offers him a knowing look that is not without sympathy, and he sighs.

"Pipe it down here to Lab Eight then, Lieutenant, I'll just take it here."

_"Aye, sir. Transferring now."_

"Admiral Cartwright," he greets with a respectful nod, seating himself at attention in front of Spock's computer as the elderly man's face fills the screen. "How can we be of assistance?"

_"Kirk, your last report on the Cerulean situation was disturbingly sparse of details."_

Jim winces, but isn't about to blame Spock or anyone else for the fact that there simply hasn't been anything to report. "Our progress was stalled five days ago, Admiral - upon our arrival, in fact. Nothing of note has happened except some slight development in formulating an inoculation against the Cerulean virus. I am aware the deadline for a progress report is today, and I had planned to –"

The admiral cuts him off with a slicing hand motion, craggy features twisting into a worried frown. _"Captain, I am not calling to censure you for your brevity in reporting."_

"Oh, awesome." Spock's boot-toe gently stomps on his under the table, "Ehm. I mean, that is something of a relief, Admiral. What is going on, then?"

 _"New orders, direct from Starfleet Command. You are to get the_ Enterprise _to a safe distance away from Cerulean space, immediately."_

He can almost feel the surprise emanating from Bones and his First Officer. Then he finally locates his voice again, and firmly pushes a bubble of panic into a small mental compartment, barring the door with every ounce of willpower in his possession. "Acknowledged, sir. But…may I ask why?"

The admiral sighs, and rubs a wrinkled hand across his eyes before returning his gaze back to the viewscreen. _"Kirk, you are aware that construction of a new 'Fleet is still very much a work in progress after its decimation over Vulcan."_

"Yes, I'm aware." One reason why he'd landed a ship in the first place, is because there were only a half-dozen constitution-class ones left after Nero, and in the intervening months construction has suffered several financial setbacks, not the least of which was Khan's destruction of a major portion of New San Francisco a year ago.

_"Construction has been slower than anticipated due to diversion of funds and the wish for no 'Fleet action to be in any way construed as preparation for a declaration of war against either of the galactic empires between whom there has been lasting tension. There are a dozen ships under construction at the moment, but still only seven constitution-class ships in full use at the present time in the 'Fleet."_

"Sir, what does this have to do with the Enterprise and the situation on Cerulea?"

 _"We believe this plague outbreak is a ploy by the Romulan states to lure out and destroy the_ Enterprise _."_

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, but the other, more logical half of his brain, protests the weirdness of the conjecture. Exchanging a dubious glance with Spock, he turns back to Cartwright. "Sir, we have reason to believe the virus outbreak to be a targeted precursor to a possible war, but that's all. Pure conjecture – with no indication that it is the Romulan Empire in particular."

"Additionally, no attempt has been made to target the _Enterprise,_ Admiral," Spock adds, bending slightly to be seen on-screen. "May we assume you possess new information which we have not yet learned?"

Cartwright nods, face grave. _"Gentlemen, in the last two weeks, the_ Potemkin, _the_ Executor _and the_ Defiant _responded to emergency distress signals from peaceful colonies in the middle of barely-charted space, each in separate sectors of the galaxy. In what I'm sure you'll agree is a monstrous coincidence, all three distress calls were for a planetary bio-medical hazard, an outbreak of indeterminate origin." (1-3)_

Well, that's not good.

Thin lips compress for a moment in anger before the admiral continues. _"All three were attacked, Kirk. Severe casualties, and the attacks are confirmed to be from Romulan warbirds. The_ Potemkin _and_ Executor _each dropped out of warp right into an ambush, and the_ Defiant _was taken unaware in the middle of a search-and-rescue mission for their missing medical team, who disappeared once they beamed down to the infected colony."_

He hears a mutter of horrified disbelief from his CMO, and for once they're in total agreement. What instincts he has are shrieking a red alert at full volume inside his head. His grip tightens reflexively on the arms of the chair.

 _"That is not all,"_ Cartwright adds grimly.

"It gets _worse_?"

 _"Much,"_ the admiral replies tightly. _"Kirk, we lost the_ Constellation _."_ (4)

All the oxygen seemed to be sucked out of the room on the instant, and he finds it a little difficult to strain for what's left.

"…Lost?" He hears himself ask in an almost eerily calm tone, and barely notices Bones making a beeline around the table toward him.

Cartwright's strained eyes soften in sympathy. _"She's gone, Kirk. Destroyed with all hands aboard. They responded to a distress call from the Federation colony on Planet L-372. The colony had already been wiped out by a force unknown, and the only way to explain the readings we've received from long-range probes is that Romulans used the transporters to beam a small container of anti-matter straight into their warp core intermix chamber while shields were down for transport."_

He barely hears the explanation over the buzzing in his ears.

_"There were no survivors, obviously. Planet L-372 was annihilated in the ensuing explosion. System L-370 has been quarantined due to the effects of intense radiation for an area of four thousand kilometers in…"_

"Captain." A hand on his arm, and a low voice in his ear. He starts violently, jerking in his chair, and looks up blankly at the face of his First Officer, McCoy hovering worriedly behind him out of sight of the monitor.

He realizes belatedly that Cartwright has apparently droned to a stop. Swallowing hard, he pulls his head back from the graveyards of Memory and into the clear and present danger this ship might be in. He has to focus on that. Focus on the ship.

Focus on the _Enterprise_.

"And you believe the Cerulean plague might make us fifth on the hit list, Admiral?" He is surprised, and pleased, at how calm his voice sounds.

Cartwright eyes him warily. _"There is no_ might _about it, Kirk. It's obvious the Romulans are trying to pick off what functional starships we have. Eliminating any vessel of advanced weaponry that might still pose a threat in the Federation."_

"Wait, did the _Potemkin, Executor_ or _Defiant_ actually contact the warbirds?" he asks suddenly, grief ebbing under the sharp flash of warning that stabs through his mind.

Disdain clearly showing upon his craggy features, Cartwright glares at him. _"Of course not, Kirk. They were in the middle of a battle, and trying to escape with their lives!"_

"Then with all due respect, Admiral," he says earnestly, shaking off Spock's lingering hand and learning forward, elbows on the table in his urgency. "We have absolutely no proof that it was the Romulans who did this – only visual confirmation that it was a Romulan vessel firing on us. The security audio on Planet L-372 only proves whoever it is can speak Romulan, not that they actually were Romulans engaged in a conflict with the colonists."

 _"Kirk."_ The tolerant irritation becomes more evident with each word that passes, but he refuses to lose his composure in the face of affected superiority. _"That theory makes about as much sense as why you would be so quick to defend an enemy empire."_

"Sir, they are not technically an enemy empire until war has been declared. Isn't our primary job to _prevent_ that, rather than just assuming it's already happened?"

 _"Watch your tone, Captain,"_ Cartwright warns. _"The evidence speaks for itself. Who do you know that can even understand Romulan, much less speak it fluently?"_

"My First Officer and my Communications Chief, for two," he snaps back, tone sharp with repressed anger. "Sir, the Romulans have obviously been trying to salvage a civil relation with the Federation ever since Nero. It makes no sense for them to attempt something of this scale, and accusing them of doing it without proof? If we declare war on the Romulan Empire over this –"

 _" **We** will not be doing anything of the kind, if it will indeed be war declared,"_ the admiral emphasizes with a dangerous acidity. " _And **you** will do as you are ordered, no more and no less. Am I clear?"_

"Quite clear, sir," he responds through clenched teeth.

_"You would do well to remember what these Romulans are responsible for costing the Federation, and act accordingly. We're talking war here, Kirk. Innocent-until-proven-guilty-by-eyewitness has no place in this business."_

"With all due respect, sir –"

_"You will follow orders, **Captain** , and that is **all** you will do. Or need we remove that title again to make the point to you?"_

You'd think he would be over that, but he still feels the burn of mortification spreading across his face at the open censure.

He swallows, dry throat muscles rasping against each other. "That will not be necessary. Sir."

Cartwright's harsh features soften slightly. _"Kirk, we simply can no longer afford to be trusting,"_ he says, not unkindly. The tone, however, does not broker any room for argument. _"We cannot afford to lose the_ Enterprise _as well as the_ Constellation _. Your orders are to break orbit and return immediately to the nearest Federation outpost for reconnaissance."_

"What about the plague on Cerulea?" he asks, forcing calm neutrality into his voice.

 _"If our conjectures are correct, the plague will cease once the_ Enterprise _has escaped the trap."_

"And if they're not correct, what happens then?" McCoy interjects heatedly. "You can't just abandon these planets when we're working toward an inoculation. This isn't a goddamn poker game for you to just gamble thousands of people's lives on!"

 _"Control your people, Captain,"_ the admiral snaps harshly. Jim glances sideways, and holds up a remonstrating hand to stop the flow of protests. They won't do any good at this point. _"Your orders are not up for debate or interpretation. Break orbit immediately and return to the nearest outpost by the shortest possible route. Understood?"_

"Understood," he forces out with as much grace as he can manage under the circumstances.

Cartwright looks skeptically at him for his tone, but says nothing more, only terminates the message.

He sits, staring at the blank screen, until a hand descends on his shoulder.

"Jim?"

"I'm fine, Bones," he orders coldly. "Recall the medical teams from the surface and make preparations to break orbit. Mr. Spock and I will be on the Bridge shortly expecting your report."

"You're not fooling anybody, you know, Jim." Bones squeezes his shoulder once, and he looks up for a moment, meeting the concerned gaze with a probably pathetic-looking nod of acknowledgement. He refuses to rise to the offer, however; it can and will need to wait. Finally McCoy sends a pointed glare over his shoulder at his hovering First Officer, and stalks out of the lab.

When the doors have finally closed behind him, Jim lowers his face into his hands and begins rubbing gently at the skin around his eyes, trying to ward off the onset of another headache. "Mr. Spock, I would appreciate it if you would take the conn until we break orbit," he says with a sigh.

"Aye, sir." The answer is instantaneous, reassuring for all its calm serenity. But there is an underlying question hidden in its depths, and he doesn't miss the fact.

Spock deserves to know, anyway. He looks up, but keeps his gaze carefully on nothing in particular around the room. "Last I heard, Carol Marcus was on the _Constellation_ , Spock." He swallows, and looks down at the table where his nervously twitching fingers had interlaced unconsciously. "You'll understand if I need a moment to assimilate this." (5)

Spock nods; he can tell that much without turning. "I was not aware that you had remained…close, Captain."

He snorts, a little wetly. "We haven't, Spock. It's been months. I'm just being a complicated, emotional human. My apologies." Clearing his throat, he gives himself a mental shake. "Can we be ready to break orbit within the hour?"

"Yes, sir." The warm presence at his shoulder shifts a fraction closer, and he looks up.

"For what it is worth, Captain, I believe the sheer magnitude of deception needed for a non-Romulan organization to carry out these threats makes such an eventuality highly unlikely. The Romulan Empire most likely is behind these outbreaks – or at least, a renegade faction of that empire."

"Well, it doesn't matter now." He shakes his head. "But it doesn't sit right with me, Spock. Something isn't right."

Spock nods, acknowledging his words but continuing on in the same vein he had been before Jim's interjection. "I also believe your diplomatic lack of bias and intelligence in recognizing the danger of instant assignation of blame, to be a far more desirable character trait in a leader than unjustly chastising a subordinate for questioning an order which is highly irregular."

He blinks. "…Thank you?"

Spock's back is up over something, definitely; those eyebrows would frighten away many a lesser man.

"Permission to speak freely, Captain."

"Could I really stop you, Spock?"

"Negative."

He laughs, a fragile, broken thing that sounds harsh in his own ears. "Well, then. Be my guest."

"It is my duty as your First Officer to indicate to you my lack of confidence in your command abilities."

" _Nice_ pep talk, Spock. What exactly is it now, that you hate about me?"

"Hatred is an emotion, one which is not only impossible for a Vulcan to feel but also a drastic exaggeration of the situation."

"Oh, well, pardon me." He can't help but laugh, because this is just too ridiculous. "So what is the situation, exactly?"

"Simply that I disapprove of your attitude during this investigation, sir."

Okaaaay, that's a new one. "My…attitude?"

"Affirmative."

"Specify."

Spock fidgets briefly – actually _fidgets_ , one finger slowly moving against the weave of his tunic before he abruptly stills the motion. "Your continual insistence upon self-deprecation is not conducive to a successful command, nor indeed to successfully passing whatever test still awaits us by forces unknown."

He flinches slightly. "Spock…look." He shakes his head. "It's not self-deprecation if it's fact. You heard Cartwright. They can't afford to lose another _starship_. Captains are a dime a dozen, especially the ones that carry the whopping amount of baggage I do. They're more concerned with the loss of the _Constellation_ than with the loss of her crew, I think." He tries to keep the bitterness from his tone but, judging from the look in Spock's eyes, hasn't succeeded so far. "I know full well just how valuable – or not so much – I am to Starfleet. Frankly I'm surprised anyone on that Board sees me as anything more than a glorified puppet. Since when is acknowledging the truth an attitude that would gather your disapproval?"

"Since your definition of said truth is based upon a completely faulty premise, Captain," is the retort, and interestingly enough that sounds like just a twitch of fire in the words.

"How so?"

Spock's eyes darken in intensity. "You are no puppet captain, sir. You are a highly intelligent human who, by reason of ability and instinct, more than deserves the chair in which he sits. That is why the _Enterprise_ remains the flagship of the Federation, Captain, and why her crew is unlike any other in the galaxy. Any man can command a starship; but not all can so easily command _respect_."

Warmth spreads gently in his chest, melting some of the icy pain that had frozen there in the last quarter-hour.

"I…have no idea what to say to that."

"Indeed." Spock looks ridiculously pleased with himself, no doubt proud of the fact that he's managed to spin them back into a proper orbit with as little emoting everywhere as possible. "I will see to the undocking procedures. Sir."

He manages to wait until the door is closed, to laugh with a hysterical enough edge that the two techs across the room look about ten seconds from comm-ing Medical for assistance.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, they break orbit, calmly and cleanly and keeping an eye on their aft viewers.

Thirty- _two_ minutes later, all hell breaks loose just off their port nacelle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Eight  
> (1) The Potemkin is first seen in the TOS universe in The Ultimate Computer (where it was damaged by the M-5 attack and nearly destroyed, limping away with severe casualties), and is mentioned the Turnabout Intruder. It was also the ship which transferred the strobolin to the Huron in the TAS episode Pirates of Orion, to get the medicine to the Enterprise to save Spock's life from choriocytosis.  
> (2) The Defiant is the ship which went missing in Tholian space and later slipped for good into interphase, taking Captain Kirk with it in The Tholian Web after they discovered the entire crew dead.  
> (3) The Executor has zero significance in Star Trek and it's highly heretical to have it in here, I’m just testing you  
> (4) Again, I'm trying to tie in some continuity here with ships of the line being destroyed in the parallel universes. The Constellation is the ship commanded by Matt Decker in The Doomsday Machine. Its crew was lost on the fifth planet in the L-370 system when the DM attacked, and then the ship itself was lost when Captain Kirk flew it into the machine itself.  
> (5) I don't really ship the two of them, FYI, but since this is set after STID and she never appears again, something obviously went down. RIP Carol, you deserved better.


	9. Chapter Nine

**_Chapter Nine_ **

Someone in a red shirt helps him back to his feet and keeps moving without pause, making a dive for a sparking console at the port side of the Bridge. His ears are still ringing from where he hit the edge of the upper deck, and why the _hell_ are those seat harnesses not automatic when something like this happens.

"Damage report! And get a fire crew up here now!" His bellow cuts through the chaos that's erupted, and from behind him he hears the staccato chirps that indicate said damage reports are pouring in from all over the ship.

"Shields at seventy-four percent and dropping!" someone shouts over the red alert klaxon, off to his left somewhere.

The haze is slowly dissipating, but he doesn't cancel the order for a fire crew; those suppressant systems are tied into the drainage systems and if they've ruptured pipes in the drainage systems the suppressants might very well be kaput also.

"Damage reports coming in from all decks, Captain," Uhura's calm voice reaches him through the ringing in his ears, and he nods without turning around, eyes on the viewscreen where the menacing figure of a Romulan Warbird lingers, very much _not_ cloaked any longer. "Extensive damage to the aft decks. Aft shields buckling."

"Lieutenant, sound the evacuation alarm for affected decks."

"Already done, sir."

"Sealing off decks eight and nine due to imminent hull rupture," Spock's voice comes from his right, crisp with tension.

Another blast sends all of them scrambling to hold onto their stations as the ship lurches sickeningly under the blow.

"Evasive maneuvers!"

"Yes, sir!"

He knows Sulu's doing the best he can, but they're no match for a Warbird in terms of maneuverability, just due to their sheer comparative size. Another blast rocks the Bridge, and three full seconds of stomach-churning nausea indicate clearly that the inertial dampeners are now flickering, hurling the gravity levels aboard into a series of spikes before they finally level out.

"Shields at forty-three percent, sir! Aft shields at eighteen percent!"

"Evasive pattern alpha-seven, Mr. Sulu." That will at least turn their most affected areas away from another direct hit. He pounds the armrest comm. "Scotty, where are my warp engines?"

_"Captain, with all the ionic interference from that blasted blue star disrupting the intermix formula, we have t'actually clear the Cerulean system before we can jump to maximum! And as it is, I'm holdin' everything together down here with a bucket o' bolts and a prayer!"_

Well, that's fabulous.

"Lieutenant Uhura, any response from the Romulan ship?"

"None, sir."

"Keep trying them." He braces himself as another blast rocks the ship under his feet.

"Sir, should we return fire?"

"We can't, Mr. Sulu, not unless we want to risk going down in history as firing the shot that actually ignites a war between the Federation and the Romulan Empire."

Granted, they still have no confirmation that it's actually Romulans inside that ship, and even if they did, his hands are tied here. If they can't get out of the danger zone in another minute or two there won't be much choice left, he will have to defend the _Enterprise_ even at the cost of an interplanetary war.

"Shields at thirty-five percent, Keptin," Chekov warns.

"What the…check the navigational systems, there's something wrong here. Try to get me a diagnostic, Pavel, _now_."

"Mr. Sulu?"

"I don't know, Captain, she's just…sluggish, suddenly. No recorded loss of power from Engineering, though." The young pilot's fingers dance over the controls, searching for the source of the power drain.

"Captain." Spock's voice, hitherto relatively calm under fire but now tight with tension, pierces the chaos of damage control and slices right to the heart of the Bridge. "A foreign program has been introduced into the _Enterprise_ 's central processing units. Systems sluggish and growing more so. Our shields have been compromised to the extent that certain non-organic materials could have been transported aboard with the aid of a sophisticated field modulator."

Ice creeps down his spine. "Not –"

"Nothing organic, as of yet, but most certainly a technological virus of some kind. A highly sophisticated one, to be able to so rapidly assimilate into our own technology." Spock glances again at the console, then steps over to peer into the scanner readouts at his elbow. Finally he turns back around, face grim. "The _Enterprise_ 's central computer appears to be shutting down, sir."

"It… ** _what?_** "

"Inexplicably, the core processes of the central unit appear to be shutting down completely."

"Well stop it! I don't care what systems you have to abort to do it, but divert power and stop the shutdown or we're dead in space here!"

Spock doesn't bat an eye. "Aye, sir. Ensign Chekov, your assistance if you please."

"Sir." The young Russian throws his station to the nearest replacement and dives under the library console as Spock begins pulling up encoding windows.

"Manually bypass the central circuits if possible to isolate the uninfected areas, Ensign. I am capable of rewriting the most vital programs from memory if an entire memory wipe is necessary…" His First Officer's fingers are fairly a blur of motion, and for a minute there is only silence as the two geniuses speed through a series of failsafes in an effort to check the virus running rampant through their supercomputer.

"Need the help of an experienced hacker?" Jim asks to break the tension, only half-joking.

"Negative; it is not skill that is required at this juncture but rather speed. The virus is spreading too rapidly to successfully create the necessary firewalls for containment." Spock's voice is muffled in his scanner as he watches sensor readings, both hands typing furiously without looking at the screens.

A sick feeling claws its way upward from the pit of his stomach, crawling in a nauseous string up the back of his throat. It’s a feeling too familiar, and he’ll be damned if he lets history repeat itself out here in the void.

War or no war, this Enterprise does not die at the hands of a madman again. Whatever the cost.

"Captain, I've lost all navigational control," Chekov's replacement speaks up nervously.

"Shields are nearly non-existent, sir," Ramon, the Engineering lieutenant at station, adds, a tinge of panic flickering in his voice as nervous fingers hover over the unresponsive controls.

He hears a Russian expletive from under Spock's legs, and grips the armrests of his chair.

"Lieutenant Uhura, get me reports from all central systems aboard," he speaks up after a tense moment, but his Comms Chief is already turning toward him.

Her face tells him the bad news before the actual words are spoken. "Sir, systems are still functional all over the ship but they are no longer in our control," she reports quietly.

_"Captain, I've just lost all control of the warp coil intermix chamber, I canna move a bloody thing down here! She's shutting down as we speak, and there's naught any of us can do to stop it!"_

"Sir, manual piloting has been disabled," Sulu adds his voice reluctantly to the mix.

"Emergency voice override, Captain's authorization alpha-one-one-zero-alpha-one!"

_"Access denied."_

"Get out a distress call before we lose communications too!" he snaps. "And try again to hail that ship, Lieutenant. I need to at least know if there actually are Romulans aboard."

"Aye, sir." But a moment later she shakes her head, silently telling him the result of both actions.

"Mr. Spock?" 

His XO straightens up at last, and though probably most of the crew would never be able to tell, Jim can see the tension in his posture. "Captain, I have managed to isolate the life-support systems under a protective firewall…but all else has been disengaged from our control."

"How is that possible? You can't at least splice and patch a temporary fix to hold us until we can get out of the system?"

"We have isolated the code, Keptin; this is not the problem now. The virus has apparently locked out all commands other than those from the Auxiliary Control bridge, sir," Chekov reports dismally as he scrambles back to his feet, shaking his head. "If we could reach one of the auxiliary consoles, it might be possible to override there, but we cannot bypass infected areas from these terminals here."

"In essence it seems to be a most remarkably advanced jamming lock.”

"Exactly, Keptin. We can possibly break the lock with time and effort, but not from here on the Bridge now that commands have been locked out."

"Why the – oh, no. Transporter capability?"

"No longer under our control, Captain," Spock replies evenly. “I would surmise the intention is to isolate the ship’s central systems and then transport a landing party in to the Auxiliary Deck to control it remotely."

"Sir, I'm picking up weird energy readings in the lower decks," an ensign calls out nervously, her voice ringing shrill in the deathly silence that follows.

He has just enough time to panic before the biohazard alert shrieks a warning.

* * *

Time stops, or at least slows to that particular, mind-numbing crawl that can only make the impact of death when it hits that much more painful.

It's almost elegant, how simple it is – the tactician in him recognizes that even above the building panic – and yet so absurdly simple, he should have seen it coming. After all, he knows firsthand how hacking a ship's defense systems can be the key to an unwinnable situation.

But there is zero time for self-recrimination; he should have foreseen this, and yet he didn't – and the entire ship is about to pay for that costly mistake.

Readings from Auxiliary Control indicate a transport took place there, but something too small to be human or Romulan or even any other species they recognize; they underestimated their opponent, horrifically. The size and shape of the item used in transport indicates a canister of some kind, and it bypassed the transporter room straight into Auxiliary Control. And given that the colonists on Cerulea died from inhalation of what they assume is a gas or virus…

When Spock quietly reports to him that it's clear from the overwriting going on in their computer core that the ventilation shafts to the AC Bridge are about to open, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what's happened.

"Can we beam it back out?" he finds himself calling above the clamor, voice strangely steady.

"Negative. All transporter functions have been locked internally."

"Uhura, hail them again."

"Sir, I have been, consistently. Our communications channels are now jammed, even the intra-ship comm isn't functioning."

No way to signal an evacuation, then, even if they had the time – which judging from these readings, they don't. And he doubts they could manually override the escape pod ejections, even if there were time enough. The majority of his crew are still rushing about their business, totally unsuspecting of the wholesale disaster about to happen.

No way to beam the canister out, no way to go to warp, no way to shut down the ventilation system, no way to even signal a surrender now to the Romulan Warbird hovering off their port bow. In less than ten minutes, if the readouts for the destruction of their core's safety programs are correct, the AC Bridge's ventilation shafts will open, spreading the virus throughout the ship in a matter of minutes. All lockdown measures have to be enacted now from Auxiliary itself, and if that were possible he knows he would have heard from Scotty by now.

Those vents can only be closed and locked – or vice versa – from within the AC Bridge itself.

And no one can step foot in there without dying in under sixty seconds, by the hand of whatever contagion has decimated the Cerulean colonies. A lucky minute at most, is all they would have, according to the medical data. And no human, now matter how quickly he moves, would be able to perform the re-coding necessary to break the computer lock before succumbing in agony, finally dying.

Wait.

No _human_ can, no.

Nausea suddenly swamps him in a sickening wave, and it must show on his face because Uhura takes a step forward, asking him if he's all right.

Painfully ill, he places his hands on the dividing rail to steady himself. The image of a glass wall flickers into his memory, seen through clouded vision fast going dark from radi _ation, hands pressed futilely against it, can't touch the person on the other side, a terribly all-encompassing feeling of grief and guilt and pain…_

"Captain." Spock's voice, close in his ear, and a hand on his arm shaking him vigorously.

He starts, inhales a breath like a drowning man, and forces the memory back into its dark corner. There will be new nightmares to take its place, in very short order.

He knows what he has to do.

"Walk with me," he whispers, and enters the lift without looking back.

He knows, somehow, that Spock would realize he was the recipient of the command and would follow; and sure enough, ten seconds later the doors close on the Bridge as they begin their descent.

"Captain?"

The inquiry is gentle, obviously guarded, but he can't quite answer yet, because if he does he's sure to lose his nerve and possibly his lunch right here when he has to be Captain over anything else. He can't do this, can't ask _Spock_ to do this; but they are all going to die, all seven hundred and sixty-three of them, the whole ship, and – (1)

"Jim, please. What is it?"

He starts, and blinks up into earnest dark eyes.

He will never forgive himself for this.

"Spock…" He slams a hand on the override button, halting the lift with more force than necessary. "Commander, we're in trouble."

"I am aware, Captain," is the reply, devoid of any dry humor that might have appeared at another time.

He's half-afraid he is going to start hyperventilating if he finishes this, but he has no choice.

"Spock," he swallows viciously around the object stuck in his throat, "someone has to get into the Auxiliary Control Bridge and retake the ship. We both know we've tried everything else that can be done in this amount of time."

Spock nods slowly; no doubt he's already run through every possibility in the two minutes they'd had since discovery of the virus, and has likely discarded all of them as invalid or impossible.

"Someone has to get in there, Spock," he says through clenched teeth. "Someone who can enter the right codes with the right level of command clearance in the amount of time he would have before the virus kills."

"The virus kills on average within thirty seconds, no more than sixty; that has been proven, Captain," Spock reminds him.

"I know. It…it kills a _human_ , within thirty seconds. And no human, however fast, can release the computer in thirty seconds."

Dread settles deep in his stomach, curling upward to wrap cold tendrils around his heart. They have but five minutes now; nowhere near long enough to get into one of the complicated EV suits stored three decks below Auxiliary Control. And while there are breathing masks on each deck for precautionary purposes, the only ones on the AC Deck are within Auxiliary itself, inaccessible within the storage compartments that are at present hermetically sealed due to the computer lock.

Spock isn't the most brilliant CSO in the 'Fleet for nothing; it doesn't take him long to connect the dots.

The picture they make is going to haunt Jim for the rest of his life.

"There is no guarantee that I will have much longer than thirty seconds, Captain, if that," Spock finally speaks, voice far more controlled than it should be under such a sentence. “While I might have slightly longer due to the difference in Vulcan respiratory function, we have no confirmation that I will be successful.”

He's closed his eyes by now, unable to look at the man he is betraying so completely.

"I…I need you to try," he finally manages to choke out.

Silence.

"You're the only one aboard who even has a prayer of succeeding," he whispers, eyes still clenched tightly shut against the pain that burns behind his corneas. "If I could, I'd do it in a heartbeat – but I can't. Not this time." He opens his eyes finally, and meets the calm dark gaze. "Spock, if you can save this ship, the seven hundred people aboard her…I need you to take that chance."

"Understood, Captain." There is no accusation in the tone, no indication that his First had just calmly accepted a painful, agonizing death sentence – one that guarantees he will not even live long enough to see if his sacrifice has been successful in saving his crewmates. No bitterness that his Vulcan blood and heritage are this time going to cost him his life, through no fault of his own.

No reproach for the man Destiny supposedly said would be his closest friend, knowingly sending him to his death.

"Computer, resume lift functions. Auxiliary Control Deck."

How can he be so _calm_ about it?

Blinking, he swears softly as one of the stinging tears he's been fighting to suppress stealthily trickles out from behind an eyelid. They've both lost _so much_ , why do they have to lose this too? He slaps furiously at the moisture, dashing it away before his First can see; emotional displays are the last thing Spock needs to focus on right now.

He knows – oh how he knows! – what it feels like to be aware that you're walking to your death, in a Hail Mary gesture you can only hope saves the people you love.

Gods, Uhura is never going to forgive him. Not for this.

"Jim." A cool hand closes around his wrist, gently tugging his hand away from his face. He blinks his eyes clear to see Spock's calm features a few inches from his own. "This is the only logical solution. You cannot blame yourself for making the correct choice to save the _Enterprise_."

"I don't think that knowledge is going to help me ever forgive myself, Spock."

"You must, Captain. The _Enterprise_ requires you at full capacity to escape this situation. You cannot permit emotional distractions at this time."

"That's not going to be possible. Damn it all, why couldn't it be me?" He shakes his head, trying to pull his mind back from the abyss it's reeling above – because Spock's right. He's _always_ right.

Spock's eyebrows flicker in dark humor. "I can assure you, Captain. I would much prefer this scenario to a repeat of past events." He holds up a hand briefly to stall Jim's protests. "Besides. To know that you – that the _Enterprise_ and all aboard her will be saved by virtue of my sacrifice, makes that sacrifice quite worth the expenditure."

The slight slip isn't lost on him, but he is fast losing control of any rational thought as the chime of the lift begins to count down the floors to the Auxiliary Control Deck, which has already been evacuated by a Code Blue, a biocontaminant alert.

"I'll get us out of here, I swear it," he vows, forcing dark determination in to steady his voice. "It won't be in vain, I promise you that, Spock."

"Since our mission began, I have never doubted you, Captain, even when you most doubted yourself," Spock replies, eyes directly fastened upon his face in a rare gesture of warmth. "You may yet doubt your own potential, and Starfleet in its ignorance may as well – but your crew never has. You are a skilled and highly capable commander, one who will make his mark in history. To serve under you has been a privilege and an honor."

Okay, so he really is crying now, although it's relegated to two tears seeping out the corner of one eye than the all-out bawling like a child he really feels like doing.

"Spock…" he whispers hopelessly, as the lift grinds to a halt – too soon, far too soon! "I'm so sorry."

"Regret is illogical, Captain," is the quiet reminder, and Spock raises a hand in the familiar _ta'al_. Their eyes meet once more, and for the first and last time he gets a glimpse of a small, affectionate smile on his First's impassive face – the smile Old Spock always offered him, the one he had wished for so long to see on his own Spock's lips.

"Please tell Lieutenant Uhura…" For a second the mask slips, and Jim nods earnestly.

"I will. I promise."

The doors open onto the empty deck, eerily deserted and lit by ominous flashing blue lights.

"Live long and prosper, Captain," Spock says, and the next instant he's gone around the corner.

The doors close, sensing no one in the doorway, and Jim stares at them for a moment, hand still upraised in farewell. While he'd like nothing better than to give in to the crippling guilt that has his lungs in a vise-like grip, he has only one minute, two tops, before Spock is in position before the Auxiliary Control Bridge doors. If he's successful in his mission, they will have to warp out of here like a bat out of hell, and even then it'll be tricky going with that Warbird.

Also, punching the tritanium wall of the lift as hard as he can? Not a good idea.

But by everything he holds dear, in _any_ universe – someone is going to pay for this, as soon as he can get his ship out of danger without starting a galactic war. Fists clenched, he scrubs his sleeve across his throbbing eyes, takes a deep breath and glares at the control panel before him.

"Bridge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Nine  
> (1) The TOS NCC-1701 had a crew complement of 432, give or take a few at any given time. Based on the visuals we receive of the AOS Enterprise (ie. Engineering being at least twice as large, the Bridge having far more personnel on it), I personally believe the ship to be considerably larger in this world, with a crew complement to match.


	10. Chapter Ten

**_Chapter Ten_ **

When he steps out of the lift alone, he can feel the tension that's been mounting in his absence ratchet up even further, heads whipping his direction before quickly returning to the alerts going off at nearly every station.

But he has no time to allay their very real fears. He doesn't even have time to break the news gently to Uhura. And he definitely doesn't have the time to grieve what he's just done – because there is only one chance for their survival, and he must see it through to the end.

He's acutely aware of Nyota's eyes on him as he re-takes his seat, and very carefully does not look back at the Comms station. They are both officers first on this ship and all else second, of that he has no doubt – but just the same, this is exceptionally cruel.

"Lieutenant, have you managed to break into that intra-comm yet?"

"Slightly, sir." Her voice is tight with tension. "We've managed to splice into the shipwide comm thanks to the firewalls Commander Spock installed before the computer shut down completely, but nothing more. Still unable to access direct departmental comms or the emergency system to initiate an evacuation."

"There's no time for that now, anyway, we have less than five minutes now." He exhales slowly, controlled, and then presses the intra-comm on his armrest. "All hands," he snaps into the channel, ignoring the concerned looks he receives from the consoles around him. "Prepare for emergency warp jump. Be at your stations, ready to assume control as soon as the current lock on our computer is broken."

 _"Captain, we'll have exactly eighteen seconds before the computer's relays will reset down here to enable a cold-core start,"_ Montgomery Scott's voice is the first to reply, accompanied by a crackle of static.

"Shave off some of those seconds if you can, and prepare photon torpedoes; manual ejection if needed."

_"Aye, sir."_

Another burst of static; they may lose this shaky connection at any time, it sounds like. _"McCoy here. Jim, what in heaven's name are we doing? D'you realize what that canister –"_

"Bones," he interrupts, fighting down a wave of nausea. "I need you to get an emergency med team down to Auxiliary Control. EV suits for all of you, but don't waste any time about it. We're going to have to fully quarantine that deck if this fails, but if it doesn't, I need you down there as soon as you can get there."

_"Are you insane, man? We haven’t even tested our EV suits against this thing, and what about –"_

"Spock's going in to break the lock on the computer."

Horrified gasps echo around him as he speaks the death sentence.

_"Jim, he'll die!"_

"I know." He _knows_ , so painfully. "But it is the only way to save the ship. He thinks he can last long enough to break the lock on the processing core and reboot the primary system. We'll have to decon the whole deck as a precaution if he's successful, once we get rid of that canister, but…I don't want him left in there. Get in there, and have Scotty beam you straight to Sickbay for decontamination as soon as systems are unlocked."

The deathly silence that has blanketed the Bridge is frightening, more so even than the shocked stillness on the other end of the comm.

 _"I'll get him out, Jim,"_ comes the quiet promise at last.

Jim signs off without a verbal response, because he's not sure he can give one that doesn't betray himself over the entire shipwide comm.

Ten seconds later, they all stiffen as a familiar voice echoes around the Bridge.

_"Spock to Bridge. I am in position outside Auxiliary Control. Readings indicate a three-minute countdown is in progress."_

He doesn't realize how hard he's biting his lip until he tastes blood, sour and acidic on his stomach. He nearly breaks the comm-button with his thumb. "Bridge here. Acknowledged."

And there it is, what he's been dreading the most - a quiet sniffle coming from behind him. He forces himself to swivel the chair around, and sees that Uhura is still attempting to hack into the comms systems, despite the silent tears falling to dot the console. He knows that they always were prepared for this day to come, his own death bringing that reality home in a painfully violent way not too long ago – but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Lieutenant." His voice is pitched low, but firm enough that she looks up at him, lips pressed tightly together. "Do you need to be relieved."

"Negative." The word's fairly spit at him, but he can't blame her for using anger as the best weapon she has right now.

"I –"

" _Save it,_ Captain," she fires back, one eyebrow raised in a weirdly, scarily familiar gesture that makes his heart ache. "Now get us out of here."

He's never been more proud of his officers.

He swivels his chair back to face the Romulan Warbird on the viewscreen. "Engineering, synchronize your restart countdown with Mr. Spock. Mr. Sulu, be ready to warp us out of here at all speed as soon as engines are back online. Chekov, plot a course as far away from here as we can get in the ten seconds we can stay at Warp Seven, and as soon as you have photon torpedoes locked on that ship take out its navigation section, then Engineering – but steer clear of their warp reactor chamber."

"Sir?"

" _Constellation_ or no _Constellation_ , destroying that Warbird will only further the tension between the Romulans and the Federation," he clarified. "We cannot take that risk." _Even if they're costing me my First Officer, and they've cost us so much already_. "Disable its weapons and navigation, and we can send reinforcements back for it if it doesn't tuck tail and run back to the Neutral Zone."

"Aye, Keptin," the young Russian answers, fingers flying over the controls.

_"Engineering synchronized. We'll hit Warp Seven, maybe a bit better, eighteen seconds after y'release the computer, Mr. Spock."_

_"Acknowledged. As barely two minutes remain, no further time must be lost. On my mark, Mr. Scott. Godspeed, gentlemen, and as you humans would say, good luck. Spock out."_

His fingers reflexively reach in panic for the intercom, but he pulls back at the last second, knowing the opportunity has passed.

The Bridge is eerily, utterly quiet, as they monitor the instruments, waiting for an indication of the inevitable.

"Incoming transmission from the Romulan ship, Captain." Uhura's voice is snapping with tension and underlying grief, though a lesser informed crewman might not hear that.

"Ignore it." At this point, it would only be a slap in the face to the crewman already dying on his AC Bridge; and after being ignored for the last ten minutes? It’s got to just be gloating for their imminent demise.

"But sir –"

"I said ignore it, Lieutenant. Mr. Chekov?"

"He is halfway through necessary override sequences, sir," the young man reports nervously, tugging at the collar of his tunic. Jim knows the entire ship, not just the Bridge, has to be waiting in desperation to see if those vents will open in less than a minute, distributing their own widespread death sentence. "Sixty-three percent, engineering systems rebooting…navigational systems released, system rebooting…Sickbay lockdown released…seventy-eight percent…eighty-three percent…ventilation ducts sealed in Auxiliary Control…"

An audible sigh of relief ripples around the Bridge, one that he echoes silently; they may not be out of danger, but at least now he knows the rest of the ship will be safe until they can locate an anti-agent and pipe it into the room to kill the thing when it's released.

"…Eighty-seven percent…ninety-two percent…"

"Lock torpedoes."

"Torpedoes locked, Keptin."

"Course calculated, sir, and waiting for your order," Sulu murmurs unnecessarily.

"Captain, the Warbird has ceased transmitting," Uhura's sharp tone pierces the countdown. "They likely have been scanning us and can read that their jamming lock is failing."

Chekov's finger hovers over the photon torpedo launch. "Ninety-six percent…helm released, sir, full Bridge control restored…ninety-nine…Full core control released! Secondary Bridge stations, engage in _immediate_ reboot!"

"Fire torpedoes when ready!" he snaps. "Forward shields at maximum. Scotty, get us moving as fast as you can."

"Torpedoes away, sir!"

A brilliant burst of crimson explodes on the viewscreen; obviously, whoever is commanding the Warbird had been so certain of its plan that the idea of the _Enterprise_ regaining control of its central processing core in time to do any damage never occurred to them. The smaller ship's shields had not even been fully raised after beaming over the virus-riddled canister.

 _"Warp drive online, Captain!"_ Scott's shout fills the Bridge, and Sulu's hands are moving even before Jim barks the order.

The stars shiver, vibrate for a brief moment, and then they streak away into hyperspace.

"The Warbird began to follow at Warp Two, sir," Chekov reports breathlessly, head now bent over Spock's scanner, "but…they were forced to halt pursuit. Indications of a plasma leak." The young man straightens, eyes shining. "We are clear, sir."

Lips pressed tightly together, he hammers the comm-switch in his armrest. "Kirk to Auxiliary Control," he manages to speak the words without his voice cracking, a major accomplishment.

No answer.

"Mr. Spock…Spock, if you can hear me, it worked. We're clear." When no answer was forthcoming, he swallows, tries to not look at the crew who are watching him, horror-stricken as the full impact suddenly grips them, a nightmare relived again in more painful reality than his own inglorious death had been. "You did it, Commander," he finally whispers, finger slowly falling from the switch.

 _How ironic is this_ , he thinks to himself bitterly. Ambassador Spock's Jim Kirk had died long ago, and now his Spock had, leaving the both of them floundering for a relationship that had ended prematurely, with no warning. No way to prepare.

So much for Destiny. Why he ever believed in it, he has no idea. It seems in any universe, Destiny gets a kick out of screwing them over in the most painful way possible.

"Captain." There's an unmistakable shaking in Uhura's voice, one that hits him straight in the heart. "Sir?"

"Record Commander Spock in the ship's logs as deceased in the performance of his duty, Lieutenant," he responds without looking at her. "Prepare a status report to Starfleet on the disabled Romulan ship; suggest sending a border patrol to see that they really do re-cross back into the Neutral Zone."

"Acknowledged." He hears a quiet exhalation. "Sir, readings indicate Dr. McCoy has requested transport to iso/decon in Sickbay."

Cold ice fills his gut, wrenching pain from him that nothing can dispel. He saved his ship, his crew – but at such a cost! He took an oath as a Starfleet captain, and swore to stay by it, no matter the cost of his decisions.

What kind of a man _is_ he, to make that kind of a choice?

"I can't believe…" Sulu breaks off, shakes his head, eyes still flickering over the controls as they wake from their sluggish state. "We'd all be dead if he hadn't volunteered for that, sir."

His hands clench, causing the armrests to creak in protest and every eye to look at him. The atmosphere is choking him; he has to get _out_ , to run like the coward he truly is, from the knowledge that he's just as good as murdered a man. But first, he has to tell the crew the truth; they deserve at least that much. Their loyalty isn't given lightly, but how quick to stand by him will they be when they learn what he's done for the needs of the many?

His voice rings flat, cold – as expressionless as a Vulcan's even; because if he doesn't adopt that kind of control he won't have any at all. "He didn't volunteer."

"He…what?" Chekov's trusting eyes are wide with confusion.

"Commander Spock did not volunteer to enter the Auxiliary Bridge and release the computer, exposing himself to the virus in the process," he repeats dully. "I sent him in."

"You…" Uhura's voice behind him breaks at last, and he's very glad he decided not to turn around while making this confession.

He nods, staring straight ahead at the viewscreen. "I am responsible; I knew he would not refuse an order. I sent him in to die, to save this ship and her crew."

"Indeed you did, James," a voice exclaims suddenly from nowhere, and with a blinding flash of light a familiar being stands before him, clad this time in the blue uniform of a 'Fleet science officer.

Oh, no.

The moment realization strikes and comprehension dawns, he does one of the stupidest things he could possibly do but does not care in the slightest. Q doesn't even yelp at the force of his punch, only gives a little irritated squawk as he hits the deck.

"Here now, _mon capitaine_!"

"How dare you show up on this Bridge in that uniform!" He's nearly vibrating with rage, legitimately wishing he could kill a quasi-deity.

Q picks himself up off the deck, dusting off his tunic with a gesture of disgust. "Ugh, you mortals and your therapeutic need for violence. Quite disgusting. I don't feel pain, you know."

"You – this was _your_ doing!" he snarls, fists clenched so tightly he thinks he might break his own fingers. " _This_ was your test – for me! You were testing _me_ , and it cost Spock his life!"

"Ah, but you see, friend James," Q replies, with a flippant wave of the hand. "That was the entire point of the test. I really cannot understand your overreaction, here."

"I will kill you, Q, I swear it."

"Oh, I very much doubt that. But then, you did surprise me and kill your First Officer, hm? So –" Something in his eyes must register somewhere, because the deity steps backward quickly, looking plaintively around the Bridge. "Now, now, none of that! A little help, here?"

"Go to hell," Sulu says flatly.

"How rude!"

"Captain." Ironically enough, it's Uhura's voice that breaks through the red haze that's fueling him at the moment, and he turns, fists still clenched, to see her on her feet as well, head held high. Their eyes lock for a moment, and he knows without any further words that she's clearly reminding him that Spock would never have wanted him to enact violence over anything – not even this. His First went down that dark road already, and they've discussed more than once how haunted he was by his own actions in apprehending Khan.

He closes his eyes for one moment, drawing on every bit of command training he has, and then seats himself back in his chair, hands clenched on the armrests.

"Explain yourself, Q."

"Oh, there is very little to explain." Q waves a languid hand vaguely in the air, looking highly bored. "As we agreed, your universe's fate was dependent upon your being able to prove that you, James Tiberius Kirk, are a better captain than your Prime Universe's counterpart."

"Better captain," he snorts bitterly. "I just sent one of my closest friends and most loyal officer to his death. I'm pretty sure that disqualifies me."

" _Au contraire_ , friend James," and Q disappears, re-appearing an instant later in the place Spock always stands – _stood_ – beside his chair. "That is exactly what _does_ qualify you."

"I…wait, you mean I passed the test?"

"You did." The Omnipotent smiles, and for once it appears to be without animosity or mockery.

"But I don't see how –"

"Your parent universe's James Kirk was indeed a brilliant captain, James. But he did have his weaknesses. You remember our terms: you were to prove you are a better captain than he?"

"Obviously I remember. And?"

"A better captain, James," Q clarifies, waggling a finger dramatically. "Not a better man; a better _captain_."

Realization slams into him like a runaway shuttle, and he slumps in the chair, stunned.

Sulu's hand goes up, as if he were a cadet in a classroom again.

Q turns, rolls his eyes ceiling-ward. "Yes, you in the gold. D'Artagnan, is it?" (1)

His helmsman has that _you-are-about-to-become-sushi_ face on, but reins in his frustration with admirable calm. "How, exactly, did he prove that he's a better captain than your James Kirk?"

"What's the first duty of a captain, gentlemen?" Jim asks wearily.

He hears a sudden inhalation from behind him, and turns his head. Uhura's eyes are glinting dangerously. "To protect and preserve his ship and his crew," she answers the question, voice deadly calm. "At all costs."

"Quite so. At _all_ costs. Even if those costs are very dear indeed," Q clarifies before Jim can interject, and the sweeping wave of realization drops like a blanket over the room. "You chose wisely, James, and in doing so saved not just your ship, but also your universe, from certain destruction."

"So I've proven I'm a better captain than your James Kirk, because I'm able to murder a man to save my ship, something I assume he never did." He will never believe in Destiny again, if the choices foisted upon him here are all a part of its twisted plan for the universe.

"No, no, no!" Q exclaims impatiently. "Do keep up, Captain. You have proven to be a better _captain_ than my universe's James Kirk because you put your ship before your closest friend. While your Primary Universe's counterpart did at one time choose to send his First Officer on a near-suicide mission, there was no certain guarantee that he would die, and most certainly not in so painful a way as this. No, we are speaking of a different event entirely. You are aware of the fact that in your parent universe, it was your Ambassador Spock who saved the Enterprise from destruction at the hands of Khan Noonien Singh?" (2)

"I'm aware."

"To _send_ him into the warp core reactor room would never have occurred to my James Kirk – then or at any other time. And if it had, he would never have ordered it or even permitted it; which is why your Ambassador left the Bridge without informing anyone of his intentions during their battle for the Genesis device.” (3)

Q gestures vaguely around the Bridge. “You have made it clear you have no problem with gambling your _own_ life away for your precious ship, James. What was not so clear, was whether you have matured enough to make that choice with those you hold dear. That is the true duty of a captain; how he faces death, not just for himself but for those whose lives he holds.”

Great. So his _heartlessness_ is what makes him a better captain.

Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face and tries to ignore the pounding in his head. It's time now to pick up the pieces, something he honestly has no idea how to go about doing. How is he going to live with this knowledge the rest of his life?

"Fine. Now that I've passed your test, will you leave my universe alone?" he finally asks through gritted teeth, unable to fight against the crippling anger any longer. If Q would just _leave_ , he could turn command over to Scotty, get down to Sickbay and force himself to confront the consequences for what he's done, and then steal one of Bones's sedative 'sprays to stave off having to explain everything again to his crew…

Q nods readily enough. "A bargain is a bargain, James. But first." A knowing smirk crosses the Omnipotent's face. "There is the matter of your 'edge,' as you so amusingly called it."

His stomach twists, sharp and nauseating. "Since Spock was supposed to make the choice, the deal is moot, Q. Just…get off my ship. _Please_."

"But again," Q lowers his voice, leans over the command chair with a satisfied smile, "you chose wisely, James. You really do have an instinct for these things, you know."

Tiredly, he lifts his head from his hand. "Come again?"

"The word of an Omnipotent cannot be broken, Captain. Your terms expressly stated that your First Officer make the choice I offered you."

"But he is _dead_ ," he snaps, not in the mood for games.

Q's languid wave nearly takes out his eye. "Dead, pah. You mortals have such a horrifically transient view of your own mortality. It is quite tedious."

"Get. Off. My. Ship."

" _As I was saying_ ," Q proclaims loudly, with a dramatic sweeping gesture. "Had you decided you would be the more suited choice for your terms to take effect, Captain, then you would even now have failed part of that test; for your counterpart refused to relinquish control in his universe during certain circumstances, on more than one occasion going against his peers' and officers' recommendations for the sake of his own intuition." Q's eyes glint. "Already, James Kirk, you have accepted the fact that your Vulcan First Officer, among so many other beings, by the way, is far wiser than you when it comes to certain matters. Humility, and realism, and the knowledge that your pride is worth far less than that responsibility which hinges upon you – all these, are a combination in which you are considerably stronger than the James Kirk of my own universe.

Your Spock and yourself are destined to be a team of equals, not a command chain; brothers-in-arms, before the closest of friends; a co-operation, but not a symbiosis. That is where you differ from your Primary Universe counterparts, and that is precisely why you have passed this test." (4)

Q beams, snapping his fingers and making confetti fall through the air, coating every surface in sight with multi-colored bits of foil. Chekov sneezes and immediately tries to shake them out of his hair, looking rather like a puppy shaking itself dry after a bath; if the situation wasn't so horribly nightmarish, Jim would laugh hysterically.

"On both counts, you chose wisely, James Kirk. Your universe deserves to survive. And," Q adds with a sly grin, "you shall have your edge."

"You mean…I get to choose?" A faint hope stirs, only to be dashed by the expression on Q's face.

"Certainly not! That was _not_ our agreement, James. Do you never learn."

"I don't understand."

"Really, you mortals cling to such ridiculous misconceptions of your own life forces," Q sniffs. "Matter cannot be created nor destroyed, do you not _read_ your own scientific laws. Life is simply existence, and death a changing of that existence into some other form. It is really not so difficult to interchange the phases."

He stares blankly, not grasping the implications.

The Omnipotent vents a bored sigh, and carelessly snaps his fingers once more.

Eyes still adjusting after the blinding flash of light, he hears what has to be a stifled shriek from Uhura - partially muffled behind her hand, partly obscured by the inter-comm blaring in what sounds to be a thoroughly freaked-out screech of profanities courtesy of their Chief Medical Officer.

As his vision clears, the entire Bridge freezes as one. He rockets to his feet, wide-eyed and unsteady.

"Fascinating," observes the tall figure now standing beside Q, merely raising an eyebrow at the chaos threatening to erupt around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Ten  
> (1) Referencing the TOS episode The Naked Time; Sulu's impromptu sword-fight under the influence of the Psi2000 virus earned him a snarky "Take Mr. D'Artagnan to Sickbay" from Spock (character is of course from The Three Musketeers).  
> (2) See the TOS episode The Immunity Syndrome; while the choice to send Spock into the area around the 'space amoeba' was extremely dangerous, it was by no means guaranteed to be deadly as TWOK or this situation was.  
> (3) Again, referencing TWOK  
> (4) Q's words here are my own head-canon of these characters. The first dozen times I watched the Reboot I hated it, and then I finally realized why – I was expecting these characters to be the TOS Kirk and Spock I love, expecting them to be mirror counterparts. But they are not; they are entirely different people, react in entirely different ways, and have entirely different relationships; no less effective, no less meaningful, but different. In those first two movies I saw glimmerings of what they could be, but they are not TOS Kirk and Spock, or even the much more seasoned officers we see in Beyond. Once I realized this difference, I began to love the AOS as its own universe, not as a poor copy of my beloved TOS.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**_Chapter Eleven_ **

In the mild uproar that follows (involving calming down a very _freaked_ Chief Medical Officer, who had been examining the body in Sickbay's decon chamber when it had simply disappeared into thin air), Jim can only stand there, blinking in disbelief as his brain starts rebooting like their computer just has. He vaguely senses Uhura blowing past him, rattling off something in Vulcan that doesn't really take a linguist to translate. The reunion is brief, only a few seconds of intense conversation, and he absently commends them for not breaking regulation on the Bridge even in these extenuating circumstances.

He then realizes said Bridge is spinning, just a bit, and the lightheadedness doesn't go away when he collapses more than sits in his chair.

"Captain?" Sulu is eyeing him warily from the helm, and he has no doubt his face is pale as death, given that he can hear his pulse pounding strangely in his ears.

He exhales slowly. "Q, so help me. If this is just another one of your tricks I _swear_ I'll find some way, somehow, to blast you back into your own hell."

Spock's eyebrows dance up into his hairline. "Q is quite correct, Captain; by his own agreement to your terms, he is required to return me to this dimension of existence, else his own word is invalid. And if he is indeed an Omnipotent, then he is bound by its veracity."

"And what sport would there be in returning him so he could fulfill your little promised reward, and then simply snuffing him out again?" Q asks indignantly. " _I_ for one have no desire to deal with his rebellious katra for the next century or three."

Still stunned, he can only stare, eyes wide, trying to take in what just happened.

"Seriously, though, sir," Sulu interjects, saving him another few precious seconds to pull himself back from the edge. "Are you…all right, Commander?"

Spock calmly raises an eyebrow, and while Jim can see he is at least somewhat uneasy at the abruptness of what just happened, he does appear to be in control of the situation. Whether that's genuine, or just practiced Vulcan calm, he can't tell for sure.

"I am quite functional, Mr. Sulu."

"That wasn't what I asked, sir, if you'll excuse my frankness." A glare is delivered at their erstwhile guest, who only looks slightly amused by the gesture. "Seriously, sir."

"I assure you, gentlemen, that I am unharmed." A quick glance around the Bridge, and then his XO's eyes come to rest on him. A slight flicker of uncertainty flits through the calm expression, not quite quick enough to be hidden. "Captain?"

With the word, everything seems to fall gently into place, like the last puzzle piece completing an old-fashioned jigsaw. He can feel a slow, spreading smile beginning to creep over his features as he manages to make his feet again, stepping down from the dais just a few inches from his miraculously-resurrected First.

He shakes his head, running a hand helplessly through his hair. "Look, am I going to get a nerve pinch if I hug you?" he asks, half-seriously.

Spock's lips twitch suspiciously. "I would prefer you did not."

A ripple of laughter flows easily around the Bridge, swamping him in a warm wave of relief and happiness.

Said laughter is interrupted by what can only be called an _explosion_ of his extremely freaked-out Chief Medical Officer onto the Bridge from the turbolift. The subsequent verbal whirlwind that results is sufficient to entertain even Q for the next ten minutes; but finally things reach a point of relative calm, or what passes for that on this ship.

Spock has meanwhile taken the opportunity to scoot out of range, more's the pity. Jim settles back into his chair, smiling as his First Officer now returns to his station as if nothing happened.

He knows from experience it's probably only a matter of time before the trauma of being abruptly returned to life after knowing what it feels like to die surfaces, but in the meantime they still have a job to finish. He turns back to Q, question clear in his eyes.

"Well, don't I even get a thank you?" the Omnipotent cries in an apparent fit of pique.

"Oh _hell_ no. Forcing me to make a choice like that?"

"Fair point," Q concedes. "Then I shall give you the answers you seek and be on my way. Spock of Vulcan, have you made your choice?"

"I have, and I have not forgotten that my decision was _also_ a part of the contingency which you discussed with Captain Kirk, regarding the permanent existence of our universe," Spock says coolly, and Jim suddenly remembers that fact as well. He glares at Q, disgruntled, as his First continues. "My choice, no doubt, constitutes my portion of the test?" Q says nothing, eyes sharp. "I thought as much. To mislead the captain regarding the test's completion is a dishonest tactic."

Q's teeth flash in a predatory smirk. "But I never agreed to play fair, Vulcan."

"You –"

"Quiet, Captain," the Omnipotent warns. "You had your chance. It is hardly my fault that your memory of our terms was so pathetically disrupted by emotional connection."

"But –"

"Enough! Need I demonstrate I am capable of removing speech from you entirely?"

He subsides with only a glower; he knows when to choose his battles, and this is one of those times.

Q snaps his fingers, pointing once more over his shoulder at his XO, who stands and moves down toward the central Bridge again to face his opponent. "Now then, my dear Spock. You have made your choice already, if I am not mistaken?"

"I have, Q. Based upon what I believe to be your reasoning behind this test, and after several… conversations, with my Primary Universe's counterpart."

Well that's unexpected.

"Dear me, Commander. I do believe that is _cheating_."

"It is…utilizing every creative resource at my disposal," Spock corrects calmly. "A skill I have learned from a master of the art."

Behind him, he hears Bones snort in disbelief, even as a stupidly warm feeling starts to thaw the sick knot of tension that's had him on edge for hours.

But then a cold chill runs through him as he really comprehends for the first time what the implications are here. If he remembers their original conversation correctly, if Spock makes the wrong choice – whose consequences could still totally disrupt their own timeline – then he will fail his part of the test.

His decision is likely no easier than Jim's command decisions of the last hour have been. But what exactly _is_ the test?

"Decide wisely, Spock of Vulcan," the Omnipotent warns, waggling a finger in the air before the two men. "For your universe now hinges upon your choice."

Spock's eyes meet his for a moment, but Jim says nothing as nothing is really necessary. He really would not want to make this choice himself; he has no idea what constitutes the _right_ choice, for one, and he's not sure he even could decide who to bring back from the dead, for another. They've all lost too much in this world, too many good and wonderful people before their times. How could he ever choose one, and how could he justify that choice?

"Q," Spock finally speaks, and the calm timber of his voice causes almost everyone to jump as it rings in the sudden stillness. "Your terms did state my choice could include anyone, with no exceptions? And that they would be brought to our universe at the age and condition in which they departed?"

"Those were the terms," is the answer, the sing-song tone sharpening with unadulterated anticipation. "Though I suppose I could age them accordingly if you prefer. It is of very little consequence to _me_. But those were the terms agreed upon."

"Then I have made my decision, Q."

The Omnipotent gives a small wriggle of genuine excitement. Jim startles, a stifled yelp of surprise escaping as he is abruptly shifted by unknown forces to stand beside his First Officer. Q plops himself down in the vacated captain's seat with a smirk, as if daring him to pitch a fit about being manhandled.

He shakes his head reassuringly at Spock's questioning look, and just folds his arms with an eyeroll in the Omnipotent's direction. None of them have the time for a power struggle right now, not with so much on the line.

"Do tell, Mr. Spock." Q beckons intently. "The choice is yours – and so is the destiny of all you know. If you choose incorrectly, the ramifications for your universe's Destiny could be…well. _Disastrous_."

The implications of that are frighteningly real, given what they know this being is capable of. But Spock's clear voice rings across the Bridge, firm and unwavering in its certainty.

"Then I choose Captain James Tiberius Kirk, of _your_ universe."

* * *

For several seconds, no one moves.

He stares at his First, utterly uncomprehending. Spock could have chosen his _mother_ , for heaven's sake, or anyone else lost in the Battle of Vulcan. Could have chosen Christopher Pike or anyone else they've lost since that disastrous battle with Khan – and he picked _who?_

But Q's smile slowly edges into a full-blown grin, and he gives vent to a short but enthusiastic round of applause. "Oh, well-chosen indeed, my Vulcan friend!"

"Jim, what the _hell_ is going on here?" McCoy's irate demand nearly rattles a nearby console.

Q whirls the command chair in the physician's direction. "Doctor, I believe your services might be needed in Sickbay right about…" he pretends to look at an invisible wrist chronometer, "…now."

 _"Sickbay to Bridge,"_ the comm squawks, in Nurse Chapel's unmistakable but obviously flustered tone. _"Doctor McCoy, report please."_

"McCoy here, Nurse," the man snaps over Uhura's shoulder into the channel she indicates. "What is it?"

 _"Well, Sir…a man just appeared out of thin air, onto one of the bio-beds in Recovery Room Two."_ To her credit, the nurse appears fairly calm, even if confronted with magically appearing people in her cubicles. They've seen stranger on this ship, but not _much_ stranger, he has to concede.

"What." An incredulous glance back over his shoulder, and McCoy shakes his head in what looks like resignation. "Never mind. I'm coming down right now," the CMO growled. "Standard decon procedure, and put him in restraints; we don't have any idea who or what he is."

_"Yes, sir."_

"We're not done here!" Accompanied by a stabbing finger in his direction, the words are shot at him like a phaser blast as the lift doors close behind his CMO.

Shaking his head, Jim looks back at the Omnipotent. "Is that really my other self down there?" he asks, ignoring the fact that his voice has risen almost an octave in pitch.

"It is. You chose wisely, Spock," Q remarks, while casually inspecting the controls in the chair's armrest. He pokes absently at a flashing light. "You understood the purpose of the test."

"I believe I did," is the calm reply. "When confronted with such a decision, with such moral variables, there simply was no logical move to be had. And while it would have been…pleasant," Jim hears the slight tremor disguising the pain of wounds long scarred, never healed, "to select any one of the many beings we have lost throughout our lives, to do so would demean their deaths. Had I chosen George Kirk, Captain," and Spock looked apologetically at him, "it would have entirely cheapened his sacrifice at your birth, and might possibly change our future timeline considerably due to the consequences in Starfleet Command. Had I chosen any of the men we have lost in this first year of our five-year mission, the same might result. That is a risk which is simply too great to take. Mortals are not meant to make such choices."

"But…you could have –" He stops himself, not wanting to cause pain by saying it, but Spock nods for him to continue. "I don't understand," he admits. "You could have chosen your mother, Spock."

"I could have," is the quiet reply. "But my father has, in the interests of propagating our species, already remarried. She would have no true home, now, trapped between two worlds and fully belonging in neither. A situation with which I am somewhat familiar." His heart aches at the simple statement of fact as Spock continues. "Added to that, I have…accepted her loss. All she knew on Vulcan has been destroyed. To return her…would do nothing but harm to all involved."

"Understood."

"Besides, despite our disagreement on the matter, Q. As a scientist, I do believe to resurrect that which has been fully put at peace to be an immoral action."

"You do see the hypocrisy in that, correct," Q replies dryly, gesturing vaguely in Jim's direction.

"The situations are not comparable." Spock shifts slightly. "We are discussing events which occurred months, even years prior. To only now change those events, could have disastrous consequences for any timeline and for the being involved. The situation was not so with either of us, only minutes or hours after the fact."

That's a little shaky logic, but Jim sort of understands. There's a very large difference between putting something to rest for years, and simply refusing to accept the situation for a few hours or days. "And so you chose his universe's counterpart for me, instead?"

He still doesn't quite get _why_ , though he knows one thing – Spock was definitely the right man for this job. Jim would likely have made a completely emotional decision, without thinking of the consequences for the person he would have resurrected. Coming back from the dead is no joke; it wrecked his mindset for months. He can't imagine how difficult it might be, to do such a thing to someone years after the fact.

"I believe that was the first point of the exercise, was it not, Q?" Spock asks the Omnipotent, who is listening with interest to their conversation. "You wished me to acknowledge the existence of Destiny, am I correct?"

"You are," the being answers, steepling his fingers in a gesture of quiet satisfaction. "Well done."

"But I thought you don't believe in Destiny," he blurts out, remembering the pretty vivid conversations they've had on the subject.

"I…have changed my views, Captain." An uneasy look flits across his First's features, before fading into the bland self-assurance that normally resides there. "For the primary reason that I have found I _must_ believe in it. The alternative is simply…unthinkable."

He knows, somehow, that it was that conversation with Old Spock which had started this particular ball rolling. The words of the holo-image they saw still ring hauntingly through his mind, days after the fact – and obviously, if his by-the-book XO has been talking to the Ambassador behind his back, well. He must not be the only one haunted by what might have been.

Spock continues his explanation, eyes flicking briefly to Uhura before coming back to him. "To resurrect someone close to us would distort our lives, our destinies as they exist today; we have no idea the consequences that might result from such an action. Therefore, to _not_ alter our own destinies, my choice must be one who would not have the chance of changing our histories."

"Indeed." Q waves a peremptory hand. "Quite logical. And the second point of the test, Commander?"

"The second point, I believe, is not dissimilar to the motive behind the Captain's portion of the test, meaning I must prove the ways in which I differ from my Primary Universe counterpart. Your intention was for me to prove that I am capable of making an emotional decision without compromising Vulcan principle, something my counterpart did not learn until much later in life."

Huh. That makes sense, even if it would never have occurred to him. Obviously, Spock's been far more concerned with this affair than he and researching accordingly – one more indication of just how loyal his CSO really is.

"Am I correct, Q?"

"Quite correct." The Omnipotent leaps out of the chair, ignoring the shocked looks on a few faces at Spock's last admission, and beams at the Bridge crew. "Gentlemen, it has been, to borrow a word, absolutely _fascinating_. But I must bid you all farewell now. I doubt that I shall have need to return to this universe, much as it breaks my heart to think of it. I shall miss you, friend James."

"Sure you will."

"Still the skeptic, eh?" Q smirks. "No matter. You have proven beyond doubt that your universe is worthy of survival, gentlemen. I congratulate you, I really do."

"We accept your congratulations." Spock's tone clearly adds _now get out of Dodge_.

"Oh, and you will find your Admiral-turned-Captain Kirk to be in fairly decent condition; but do tell him he may wish to lay off the complex carbohydrates if he intends to grow old with his Ambassador?" A mischievous wink, and the Omnipotent raises a hand in farewell. "Until we meet again, Captain Kirk."

" _If_ we meet again," he retorts, folding his arms and giving a curt nod of acknowledgement over them.

Q's smirk widens. "You can but hope, James. _You can but hope_."

And with that, he is gone, leaving them all staring at the empty space where once he stood.

"Well, that was fun," he says to no one in particular. Someone snorts to his left, a muffled high-pitched laugh bordering on the hysteria that comes with an adrenaline crash. "Gentlemen, return to your stations and begin assessing damage reports. Mr. Chekov, contact Mr. Scott and figure out the best way to vent and decontaminate the AC Deck, then send the report to my padd with options."

"Aye, sir." A few other murmurs echo his young navigator's words, and the tension starts to dissipate with the much-needed return to normality.

"Mr. Spock, I'd like a word with you, if it's convenient."

"And if not?"

"Wow, you came back with a sense of humor? Maybe I should have thanked Q after all." He motions between his two senior officers as he moves toward the turbolift. "Take a minute for yourselves but then meet me in Sickbay, Commander. This mission isn't over yet."


	12. Chapter Twelve

**_Chapter Twelve_ **

"All right, Jim. Report? You want a report? Fine. I would like to report that I do not get paid to have my dead patients disappearin' into thin air right under my medical scanner! And this?" The wild gesture nearly takes his eye out. "What the _hell_ have you done, Jim."

"Look, I can explain everything, Bones." He knows this hasn't been easy on any of them, but it had to be pretty traumatic reliving something similar to the nightmare of two years ago. He’ll cut the man a very large break, here.

"You'd better. And where is that pointy-eared walking database, anyway?" McCoy tosses the empty hypospray cartridges into the recycling chute and removes his gloves with a disturbingly loud _thwack_.

"He's on his way. Calm down."

"You do _not_ get to tell me to calm down." A finger stabs him in the chest with more force than is really warranted, given that he's not done any of this on _purpose_. "I got no idea if he's even in good enough condition to be walking around, Jim! And don't get me started on the psychological repercussions!"

"Believe me, I won't." He rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And besides –" He's cut off by the opening of the doors behind him. "There, you happy?" The seething glare he receives makes him want to laugh with adrenaline-crashing relief. "Hey, Spock."

"Captain. I apologize for my delay. Starfleet Command requires an update on the situation at your earliest convenience."

He winces. "I really have no idea what to tell them."

"You may not need to discuss much of the mission at all, Captain, but merely its consequences. I have checked our databanks and communication records and found something quite interesting."

He half-turns, eyebrows raised. "More interesting than this mess?"

Spock nods. "It would appear that the entire events of the past week have simply been…erased, from our systems. There is no evidence of communications regarding a mission to the Cerulean system, much less a record of some kind of outbreak in the system. Our chronometers have been reset to seven days ago."

He blinks. "Seriously?"

"Indeed. My delay in arriving here was due to the fact that I ran intense diagnostics on all systems to check for damage which could cause such an error. There is none; the records are accurate."

"So, you mean…Q reset our timeline to before the mission started?"

"It would appear so. I believe we may infer that the Cerulean mission itself was nothing more than a manufactured test for our benefit. Starfleet Command's last instructions to us on Enterprise record were orders to continue star-charting this sector."

"Wait, does that mean the _Constellation_ and the other ships weren't actually attacked?" _Please, let that be true…_

"I would not be surprised to learn that is the case, sir. But I have not had time to check particulars. Lieutenant Uhura is attempting to sort communications and should have a more accurate report shortly.”

"Well, that explains why you guys couldn't find a cure for the virus, I guess."

"Indeed. No remedy could be found to something which likely did not abide by the laws of medical science, given it was manufactured by Q. It would seem that time has been reset around us, rather than with us; that would be in keeping with what Q spoke, of our being universal constants. Namely, the flow of our timeline was reset, but space and physical matter were not, including our memories of this week’s events. It would be the most logical and least invasive method of erasing the consequences of his test."

"All that medical research for nothing, though," McCoy mutters, slumping back into his desk chair with a theatrical groan.

"Scientific research should be its own reward, Doctor.” Jim coughs to hide his laughter at the incredulous look shot their way over the desk. Spock hastily continues,  
“And it was not entirely for naught. After all, we now find ourselves with an unexpected addition to the crew."

His CMO glares up at them, arms crossed. "Uh- _huh_. And exactly how are you going to explain this addition to the brass, Jim? Especially how the man’s DNA and preliminary brainwave markers are an _exact match_ for yours?"

Huh. At least they know Q didn't double-cross them.

"Well?"

"Bones, I know it’s been a hell of a day but you have _got_ to chill," he says directly, placing both hands on his CMO's shoulders. "Q's gone for good, I promise. And this…well, this is a present from him, so to speak. Because we passed his tests."

Bones does _not_ look impressed, not that Jim can really blame him. "Well, that explains the big red bow that was tied around the fella's neck," he mutters.

"Big red – never mind." Honestly, and Q had the gall to complain about _his_ sense of humor or lack thereof? "It's myself from the Ambassador's universe," he explains, a little awkwardly. McCoy hasn't met the old Vulcan more than once or twice, and hasn't really taken a shine to him any more than to their Spock, although for some reason the Ambassador seems to have an oddly affectionate regard for the physician.

"Well, ain't that just wonderful. It would help me chill if you had seen fit to, you know, let me in on this entire mess _from the beginning_ instead of halfway through trying to find a cure for an apparently supernatural plague, Jim!”

“Doctor,” Spock remonstrates. “There was nothing to be done about Q’s ultimatum, and any outside influence could have had undue effects on the test itself. It was simply a matter of minimizing the risk of failure.”

“And the fallout if we did fail,” he adds, truthfully. “I’ll explain everything, I promise, Bones. But we really need to deal with the biggest mess first?”

“ _Y’all_ can deal with the biggest mess." McCoy breaks off, glaring at an alarm which has started to blare over a patient. "I've got enough to deal with from that battle with the Romulans, which conveniently wasn’t reset in any way from your precious timeline. Fill me in later, and it had _better_ be good. NURSE, DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE OR WILL YOU BE KIND ENOUGH TO SHUT OFF THAT KLAXON?"

"It never ceases to amaze me, how he achieves the results he does in Medical," Spock observes sagaciously, as the entirety of the on-call med staff jump hastily to do their chief's bidding.

Jim laughs. "Plausible deniability, is my motto where Sickbay's concerned. But I want to see the casualty report before we do anything else, I didn’t realize until he said that just now that the timeline cancelation didn’t extend to our people.”

“I requested it be sent to your padd on my way down, sir. There were no death casualties, at least none reported so far. And given the extent of the damage to the aft decks, I would term that nothing less than an omnipotent miracle.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. Q may not have reset the ship, but he at least made sure none of Jim’s people or other beings suffered for his decisions the last week, on the Cerulean planets or otherwise.

Now, he can focus on their other problem.

“So before we go in and see this fine gentleman, would you care to tell me how in the galaxy you decided the other me was the _logical_ choice for you to make?"

Spock looks shifty as hell. "Not especially, Captain."

"Well, you're nothing if not honest. Consider it an order, Commander."

"A highly irregular one," Spock replies, raising an eyebrow.

"You just like seeing me die of wanting-to-know, don't you?"

"Cessation of life functions due to unsatisfied curiosity is quite scarce. Nevertheless." Jim ignores the smart-assery and just waves an impatient hand. "I…am not certain I could fully explain my actions, to you or anyone else. Sir."

"Okay, first of all, drop the _sir_. And second, try me." Hooking a foot around a nearby chair, he falls gracefully into it as it approaches and then sprawls, waving an impatient hand. "Go on, I'm all ears."

Spock folds his hands behind him in loose attention stance. "I had already determined the purpose of the tests prior to deciding the test's outcome. With that in mind, I needed only to decide which person would change little or nothing about our own history. We have a saying; _kaiidth_. What is, is; and to change that existence would defeat the principles by which we live and by which we were attempting to best this entity. I also was forced to consider the emotional ramifications upon those who were to be resurrected, as I have already explained to you."

Jim nods readily. "I get that. Just, why the other me? It's a great idea – I mean who _wouldn't_ want two of me – but how'd you arrive at that conclusion _logically_?"

Spock's eyes close in minor exasperation at his comment before opening again to look pointedly anywhere _except_ at Jim. "I…was put in remembrance of our conversation with my alternate self," he explains slowly, carefully, as if afraid of betraying too much. "His remark that he sensed the death of his Leonard McCoy, and yet felt nothing at the death of his Captain; that simply did not correlate. It began a train of thought processes which escalated into a certainty that he did not sense his Captain Kirk's death, for the simple reason that the man could not have truly died."

"Wait, wait. You two wouldn't tell me what all that freaky Spock-speak was about sensing people's deaths," Jim interjects, holding up both hands. "All things considered, I think I deserve to know. So out with it."

Spock looks vaguely uncomfortable. "Vulcan minds are capable of forming many and varied links to both telepathic and non-telepathic individuals throughout one's lifetime," he clarifies. "Over a certain period of time, a sense of… _presence_ , may develop, even though the subject has no telepathic ability nor is bonded in any way. Such is the case with us, Captain."

"Wait, what? You're telling me you have a _Kirk-sense_?"

Spock's eyebrows clearly say _unfortunately_. "Ineloquently put, but essentially correct."

"That is so awesome."

Okay, that's definitely a 100% human eyeroll. "It became apparent to me upon your own death, Captain, that such a link had formed, however unconsciously, between us. There is nothing innately telepathic about such a link, no violation of privacy between the parties. Simply a sense of presence, nothing more." (1)

"Relax, I'm not pissed about it." He taps a finger absently on the desk. "What you're describing sounds more like gut instinct than anything else, to me. Have my decisions been influenced by this?"

"Impossible. As I said, it is merely a sense of presence. What one species calls a mental link, another might term sixth sense or instinct. In such unscientific matters, the term is hardly significant except culturally."

Jim raises an eyebrow in question. "So exactly how did this develop, anyway? Shouldn't it be impossible between species, if one's not telepathic?"

"It is certainly quite rare; the sense is usually relegated to family and…close friends, who might as well be counted family," Spock replies stiffly. A slow smile starts to spread across Jim's face despite all efforts to keep a calm expression. "Quite frankly, Captain, I could not fathom how the Ambassador could possibly have felt his Dr. McCoy die and _not_ his James Kirk. That situation is simply illogical."

Wow, Vulcan burn. He tries not to laugh, and fails.

"And besides all this…it simply seemed to be the most beneficial decision to all involved."

"You mean you didn't want the poor old guy to be lonely anymore," Jim rephrases, grinning widely.

"More that I felt it would…balance the universal scales the most properly," is the careful correction.

Riiiight. And Jim's the Federation President.

Spock's made a blunder, though. Jim's smile turns even more devious. "You _felt_ it would, Mr. Spock?"

"A…poor choice of wording. I _was aware_ , would be more precise. As I said, the connections are instinctual."

"Right. You were _aware_ that Old You is awfully lonely and were _aware_ that bringing my alternate self here would be the most _instinctual_ action to take."

"Your reasoning is slightly skewed, but essentially accurate," Spock replies serenely.

"Mmhm.”

“Quite so.”

Jim snorts, but lets it drop. “Did he force you to believe in Destiny, Spock?"

"He being Q?"

"Unless it was your older self." At the incredulous look, Jim sighs, waving a hand between them. "Just enlighten me, will you? How'd you change your mind about destiny and it screwing with our lives and universes? Because your tune’s changed drastically in the last week."

"I placed myself in the Ambassador's position." Spock shrugs, just a tiny gesture from one shoulder. "Were I he, I should be obligated to believe in such a force." Dark eyes flit nervously to one side before he continues, voice lowered. "The alternative is simply…unthinkable."

Nothing could knock the smile off his face now. He's still a little incredulous that Spock gambled their futures on making his older self happy, but he's kind enough to know when that conversational door should be permitted to close again without embarrassing his First Officer.

"Well, Mr. Spock," he speaks at last, rocketing to his feet with an outstretched hand and a wide grin. "I believe we may make an honest human out of you yet."

He ignores the outraged mutter he receives in answer, and strides purposefully across the ward to the cubicle in which rests (literally, sort of) his future.

* * *

Awkward doesn't begin to describe it.

If it had been weird meeting an old version of your friend and First Officer, then it's definitely a hundred times weirder meeting an older version of yourself. The human brain isn't meant to comprehend the paradoxes involved, and he now understands a bit better why Spock doesn't like talking to his older self. There's an instinctual sense of _wrongwrongwrong_ that hits like a weapon recoil, at the sight of the figure half-reclining on one of McCoy's biobeds.

Upon seeing him, the older man's weary gaze brightens. Softens, like warm sunshine after an Iowa tornado – and just for one fleeting, heartwrenching instant, he wonders if that's how his father would have looked.

Bones had, according to the pre-meltdown debriefing, told the former Starfleet captain the basics of how he'd been transferred into a different universe; and while the older man seems a little stunned at the news he isn't flipping out over it or anything. Probably thinking you're about to die and waking up somewhere else, you're just glad to be waking up _period_ , not really caring where it is.

He should know.

Then Spock moves into the cubicle behind him, close at his shoulder, and the older Kirk's expression blanks completely, stunned surprise blanketing the warmth of curiosity. Every thought seems clearly visible on the man's face – disbelief, affection, resignation, self-control, all in perfect procession until calm reasserts itself again.

"My god, you look so young," is the quiet, almost absent murmur that greets his First's appearance.

He can't imagine how hard it might be to come back from the dead after who knows how many years and find yourself facing off against someone young enough to be your son. Knowing, realizing, you're all alone in the universe now, that everything you loved and lost is now simply _lost_ , forever.

He's fumbling to find the protocol for a situation like this, probably why Spock feels the need to break the silence and save him from looking like a total open-mouthed idiot.

"To avoid confusion, I suggest we agree upon a method of referencing you and the Captain," Spock says stiffly, without a word of greeting.

Old Kirk (should he refer to him as that? It's beyond weird) only looks faintly amused by Spock's defensive tone.

"You are accustomed to calling him Captain or Jim, I presume?" the older man inquires, and the warm calm of the cultured voice washes over his jangled nerves in a soothing wave. There's something just…reassuring, about the older man. Commanding, certainly; intense, he can definitely see that - but just in a few words, he can see the personality the old Ambassador had spoken of, and how very much more _sure_ of himself, the man is.

Different, but not better, he reminds himself silently.

"Affirmative," Spock replies curtly.

"Then you could just call me Kirk," the other suggests, lifting a challenging eyebrow. "Or if you must, I was once an admiral."

He takes a step forward in his surprise, and is instantly pinned by a lightning-quick look, almost uncomfortably intense. He cannot help but feel every move is being observed, categorized, and plotted against by a master strategist.

"How in the universe did you stand being grounded? Or did they let admirals command in your universe?" he asks, with genuine interest.

A melancholy smile. "They did not. It was likely the biggest mistake of my command career." The man's gaze flicks rapidly between them, and then settles back on Jim. "But that's a story that can certainly wait. I would appreciate a report of what exactly is going on, here, gentlemen." The tone hardens, a command edge slicing at its heart. "The last memory I have before waking up to your version of Leonard McCoy swearing up a blue streak, is of working with Captain Picard on Veridian III…I'm pretty sure I was dying." (2)

"You were," Spock agrees complacently.

Jim leans against the wall, watching the awkward interplay and laughing internally at the look his older self is favoring his XO with, equal parts exasperation and fondness warring for dominance.

"Informative, isn't he?"

"Quite," Kirk agrees dryly. "And as dead men don't inter-dimensionally shift as a general rule, I take it you are responsible for my appearance here? I would like to know why, gentlemen."

"We are responsible, but not just without a reason." Jim rubs the back of his neck, trying to formulate how best to explain the whole fiasco. "First of all," he sighs, just plunging in recklessly, "we're not a mirror universe of yours. We're a parallel one. A splinter or alternate universe."

"…Right." Kirk nods, paying close attention. "At what point then do our universes diverge into separate paths?"

Well, the man's no fool, that much is clear. Jim spends the next half-hour or so explaining the differences in their universes, beginning with Q's recent test of them and how Kirk ended up here. He then begins telling how their universes differ, with small additions or clarifications from Spock.

He grinds to an awkward halt when he reaches the part in the narrative about the ice cave on Delta Vega.

"And so, anyway…well, look," he finally hedges, glancing at Spock's raised eyebrow which clearly informs him he's on his own here. "There's…something you need to know, about this universe. Since you can't go back to yours."

"Wait, what?" The older man's eyes widen. "There's no way to reverse how I got here?”

"Considering that you are _dead_ in your own universe and entered this one via omnipotent ability, no method exists by which to return you," Spock interjects matter-of-factly. "A life here is the only alternative remaining to you."

"That's…" Kirk trails off, swallowing painfully. "Not a pleasant thought," he finishes quietly, rubbing slowly at his temples as if warding off a headache. “What purpose would you have in doing this if you had no intention of reversing it?"

"That’s the something you need to know."

Kirk looks up, and the pain evident in his haunted eyes is disturbingly open. Some absent portion of Jim's brain wonders about the scientific reasons for his ending up with blue when this Kirk's eyes are a warm hazel. "What is it, then? I seem to be stranded here for good, and according to you have died in my own universe nine decades in your parallel future. If this is Destiny's idea of an afterlife, omnipotent interference or not – I have to say, I don't think much of it. No offense, gentlemen."

"You're not the only one from your universe who's been stranded here," Jim finally blurts, unable to endure the man's evident sadness anymore.

Hazel eyes sharpen on the instant. "Specify."

"Going back to our story, we didn't tell you all of it. The renegade Romulan wasn't the only one who came through the wormhole created between our universes."

Kirk blinks, rapidly processing that and its possibilities. "Who then?" he asked curiously.

"Computer," Jim states. "Voice authorization Kirk, James T., Captain. Cut off security feed to Sickbay for space of twenty minutes. Resume upon voice command."

_"Acknowledged."_

"This is classified stuff; of all the crewmen aboard, only my main Bridge crew knows the full details," he explains. They are so accustomed to bouncing around references to Old Spock and the trans-universal mumbo-jumbo that they sometimes forget the majority of the civilized worlds still have no idea who Nero really was or where he'd come from. (3)

"What is so classified?" Kirk repeats dangerously. Determination fills the strong features, and a glare begins to edge its way onto the man's face when they both hesitate. "Who else came through from my universe?" he demands.

Jim side-eyes his XO, who only looks back at him, expressionless. No help there.

Well, here goes nothing.

"Computer, locate captain's private transmissions. Replay last received communiqué from research vessel _Patagonia_. Timestamp eight minutes from end of message."

The small bedside screen lights up as the computer whirs, bringing up the records, and Kirk half-turns to pull it closer as it chirps the countdown to playback. Finally the screen blinks into existence. A familiar face fills the monitor, and the recording begins; words that by now have haunted Jim more than once since this conversation.

Perhaps it's now time to lay those ghosts to rest, for all of them.

_"A moment, if you will._

_"This is the only personal possession which came with me through the wormhole created between our universes three years ago by the detonation of red-matter in the Romulan space of my world, Jim."_

_"A locket?"_

_"Of sorts. A holo-emitter."_

_"Isn't wearing any kind of purely ornamental jewelry a little **illogical**?"_

_"One could make that argument."_

"Spock," Kirk breathes, ashen.

"Computer, pause replay," he says softly, and lets the silence speak for itself for a few minutes.

The older man's eyes are still frozen on the image before him, barely blinking as Spock picks up the tale.

"My counterpart from your universe was also pulled through the rift in time, twenty-five of our years after Nero's appearance here but only minutes apart in yours." Spock's innate calm is visibly precarious, given the subject matter, but Kirk doesn't seem to notice. "It was he whom Jim met on Delta Vega, he who aided the captain in beaming back aboard the _Enterprise_ to take control of the ship and lead her crew to defeat Nero and save Earth. It is he who since has remained a vital part of the New Vulcan colony's rebirth, and is currently aboard the research vessel _Patagonia_ , researching plant life which may grow successfully on an arid planet; he who has been for over three years trapped in our universe, unable to return to yours."

"And, if I know the Admiralty correctly, it's him that the Starfleet brass are probably going to want you to stay under the radar with, from now on," Jim adds, firmly tamping down on his excitement at the impending reunion. “If you’re willing.”

Kirk looks up with tears glimmering unashamedly in his eyes. When he finally finds his voice, the whisper is as heartfelt as any official declaration ever could be. "I can live with that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Twelve  
> (1) Again, for sake of my story, this is more speculation on the nature of Vulcan mental abilities. It’s obvious to everyone that something connected TOS Kirk and Spock on a far deeper level than just the average friendship, and it’s been explored often by far better writers than I. For the sake of this story, I’ve chosen to explain it this way.  
> (2) If you've not seen Generations, you may want to wiki the movie to get a grasp on the plot and at least Kirk's death on Veridian III.  
> (3) This is speculation, but I just don't see the Federation broadcasting all the scientific explanations to the entire world, given the implications which could start a double war between the Federation and two empires, not to mention the time-travel capabilities which could prove exceedingly dangerous. My personal conjecture would be that they came up with some kind of cover story for the masses. I’m also a sucker for conspiracies and cover-ups, so who knows.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**_Chapter Thirteen_ **

If he had thought they could take a breath and relax now that the worst of the danger was over, he was dead wrong; the next eight hours are spent in putting out fires (in three cases _literally_ ) all over the ship, including trying to explain this gigantic mess to the Admiralty, who to their credit take in the situation with less skepticism than he'd anticipated.

The fact that the _Enterprise_ seems to always be in the thick of every mess galaxy-wide likely has something to do with the resignation on the part of the Board, who for now are having them meet with a delegation at Starbase Eleven for evaluation of the situation in-person. They'll have about eight days here to try and get things under control so that they don't just limp into the 'Base in the condition they are.

"And why exactly couldna this deity or whatever he is not put the ship to rights before poofting off to his own universe?" Scotty's demands are muffled in the Jefferies tube Jim's currently standing under. "Answer me that, Jim."

"We're probably better off without Q messing with things more than he did," he points out mildly, dodging a drip of some unidentifiable fluid he prays isn't anything vital. A sudden yawn that threatens to fairly split his head in half reminds him that he hasn't slept well for the last couple of nights running, so wrapped up in a mess that actually now apparently never happened.

"Aye, that's as may be," is the mutter that drifts downward.

He hides a smile. "Well? Any luck?"

"Aye, Captain – blast this conduit! – Sir, she'll be ready for regular warp travel as soon as we can repair the fractures in the shell of the dilithium chamber. Twelve hours, y'must give me that at least."

"You have six, because I want you off duty the other six. Get some sleep, Scotty," he calls over his shoulder as he walks off, leaving his Chief Engineer and his spluttering to himself.

A red-shirted Engineering tech nearly bowls him over as he exits into the corridor. The young woman flashes him a rueful smile of apology and snaps off a disjointed salute from around an armful of machinery as she keeps moving, no doubt fueled by Scott's high demands.

He smiles as he keeps moving down the corridor – and then it hits him pretty hard, suddenly, just how close he came to losing all of this. It's a heartwrenching thought that he's kept at bay by walking the corridors for the last two hours, just being _around_ his people.

But now, it's nearly 0100 at ship's night, and he isn't done yet making sure his people who were closest to the Cerulean drama have finally gone off-duty. He wouldn't be surprised to find Spock at least still working in the labs, trying to unravel the mysteries of how Q could perform what he did, or that Medical is still hopping as well. When their timeline reset, all data had also disappeared from their systems about the virus – even the AC Deck had suddenly shown all-clear, and when a team cautiously entered Auxiliary Control, there was no sign there or anywhere else aboard ship that any kind of contagion was still present. Bones isn't the type to just trust a generalized shipwide scan, however, and Jim only just convinced the man to stop examining every ventilation shaft aboard in person about an hour ago, sending him and his frazzled staff off to bed.

Which is an excellent idea.

But first, there's a couple of conversations he needs to have.

* * *

As he'd thought, Spock is still buried on the Science Deck somewhere according to the computer, and he has to trust that his CSO will not push himself past his comfort level. Vulcans supposedly don't need a ton of sleep, and until it shows in his performance there's not much Jim can do about it.

Also, he is too painfully aware of the fact that sleep probably isn't going to come lightly for the next few days, or longer. There's something about knowing you're never going to wake up, that makes you just a little afraid to ever close your eyes again.

Just the same, he knows he won't be able to sleep himself unless he at least checks in, so it's with a sigh of fond exasperation that he winds his way through Science Lab Nine at the harried directions of a delta-shift Microbiology ensign. Finally he reaches the annex where Spock is supposedly running simulations on gods-know-what, and he's about to barrel blithely in when he realizes Spock's not alone.

Looks like someone beat him to it. He's not sure whether to be grateful for the old man's concern or irritated that he's horning in on what is clearly Jim's territory, but at least it means neither of the two are alone with their thoughts. Spock doesn't like to be bothered when he's experimenting, though, Jim knows that from past incidents – and so he's more than happy to let the old man take the brunt of that frustration. Weirdly enough, however, Spock doesn't really look more than lightly annoyed by the elder captain's hovering, so who is he to disrupt that balance with an impromptu therapy session?

Maybe he'll take the lesser of the two evils first, and go from there.

* * *

Uhura's roommate informs him – obviously doing her dead-level best not to snap at her superior for waking her up at this utterly ungodly hour of ship's night – that she hasn't been back all evening, so it's no great feat of deduction to figure she's spending the night elsewhere. Due to too many mornings spent interrupting his First Officer with the chirp of an intercom (or on more than one occasion bypassing that and just pounding on the door), Spock finally in exasperation keyed his door to Jim's bio-signature just a few months into their very first voyage. It now opens automatically if he's welcoming visitors, stays closed if he isn't.

In this case, Jim is not really sure if _welcome_ is the right word for it, but the door opens at his approach. And he knows better than to let tension fester in his chain of command.

Uhura's apparently curled up on the couch with a padd, reading amid the soft sounds of some kind of stringed music, when he cautiously pokes his head in. His apprehension must show on his face, because her expression goes from slightly annoyed to a dramatic eye-roll.

"If I was going to kill you, you'd be dead already," she says dryly, returning to the padd in question.

"That, I don't doubt. But that doesn't mean you don't want to," he points out, though with a sense of relief as he allows the door to close behind him.

"Oh, believe me, I want to." She nods toward the empty chair that rests catty-corner to the couch. "But that's not your problem, that's mine. I'll get over it."

"It sort of is my problem, though." He perches on the edge of the chair, a weary grunt escaping in the stillness. Elbows on his knees, he offers a half-shrug. "I can't apologize for my decisions, Nyota. You know that."

"I know." She flicks off the padd, setting it aside with a small sigh. "That doesn't make it any easier."

"And that _I_ know, believe me." He runs a hand over his face, inestimably weary. "I hope it never comes to that again. But if it does, I _will_ make the same decision." Her eyes darken slightly. "If you can't live with that, we have a problem, Lieutenant."

"I don't think _my_ living, is the problem," she mutters. "But there is no problem, Captain. Message received loud and clear."

"And if it means anything to you…I'm so incredibly proud of you," he adds quietly, in complete sincerity. "I've told you before, you would be a kickass captain if you ever have the inclination."

"Thank you." Only those words, but in them he can hear the beginnings of the absolution he was hoping for. One he still doesn't really think he deserves, but one that will go a long way toward helping him try to finally put these events behind him.

"If you need to take a day off tomorrow –"

"That's not necessary."

"I won't have tension on the Bridge between commanding officers, Lieutenant. Not while we're still in damage control mode." She raises an eyebrow, a gesture so familiar he nearly laughs. "You know I have to ask."

"Understood." She uncurls her legs, swinging around to face him fully. "You need to give me a little time, Jim," she continues, matter-of-factly. "I'm well aware it was the right decision. The _only_ decision. But it's not that easy to just shake it off. Not this time."

He realizes belatedly that this is the second time she's been close to a situation like this, only this time obviously far more close than his own death, disturbing as that had been to all of them.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he says softly.

"Don't you dare be." Her eyes flash in a glow of dark fire. "Just give me a little time. Give _us_ , a little time."

"You got it." He stands, swaying slightly amid his own exhaustion. "He's still in the labs, you want me to chase him back here?"

A brief snort of laughter. "I'd love to see you try." Her expression softens finally, and she waves a hand toward the adjoining bathroom door. "No, leave him alone. I think you know it's a lot to process, he doesn't need either of us trying and failing to help him do that right now."

"Too soon, I get it."

"Now go away, there's a bottle of Altarian wine that has my name on it and you're not invited."

He laughs. "Fair enough. Look, seriously though. Call me if you need me? Even if it's just to command his royal Vulcan-ness back to bed for you."

A wicked smirk. "I'm perfectly capable of that myself, thank you." He stifles a snort, covering it with a wide yawn. "Now _sa-etek_ , Jim." (1)

"Yes, ma'am."

He dodges the slipper that's fired at his head with deadly accuracy, fleeing through the adjoining bathroom door just in time. With a word it locks behind him, and he nearly collapses in relief, exhaustion flooding over him like a wave.

But at least that went better than expected. They'll be fine, in time.

He probably should feel more guilty than he does about abandoning Spock to his elder self, though. Fortunately, sleep claims him before he can really think much more about it.

* * *

"I do not believe this to be a wise course of action, Captain."

"Oh, come on." He adjusts the monitor resolution out of fidgetiness more than anything else, fingers drumming nervously. "You know full well you want to see his reaction."

"Vulcans are not appreciative of being forced into unexpectedly emotional displays, nor do they appreciate spectators to such events."

"Well, he doesn't know about the spectating, so your argument is illogical." He beams innocently at the fearsome eyebrow sent his way. "That so doesn't work on me anymore."

"Obviously." Spock sighs resignedly. "I still wish to state my objections for the record."

"Noted."

He switches on the viewer, showing the security feed to the briefing room down the corridor from the one in which they now sit. The scene reveals the elder Kirk, now more comfortable in a spare gold uniform supplied by the quartermaster, seated at the empty briefing table and scrolling idly through a data-padd containing a brief account of the _Enterprise_ 's history.

Their message to the _Patagonia_ had been concise; they needed Old Spock desperately, and were diverting to intercept the research vessel at its earliest possible convenience. He knew as well as his Spock did, that the Ambassador would take it for the SOS it apparently was and would adjust the _Patagonia_ 's course accordingly.

Now, they are only sixty seconds from the Ambassador's beam-over, and Jim is getting jittery with excitement.

"You're acting as if you think he's going to like, bring the house down and _cry_ or something. Give the guy some credit, Spock; he is _you_ after all."

"Vulcans are incapable of crying, as the existence of our secondary eyelids precludes the need for optical lubrication." (1)

"And I call bullshit. Besides, you're only half-Vulcan. Your logic is really coming up short today."

Spock's all-too-human glare is diverted by the inter-comm sounding, informing them that the Ambassador is on his way to Briefing Room Four.

This is going to be _awesome_. He bounces a little in his seat, eyes on the viewer before them and butterflies playing tag in his stomach. Spock only shakes his head and joins him in front of the screen, elbow to elbow.

Silence.

Then, "…You really think we should have told him?"

He can fairly _hear_ the eyebrow go up. "Such questions are moot now, are they not?"

Well, the slight misgivings starting to form in his stomach are probably just over-reaction.

Probably.

Five minutes later, his elder self is still frowning in concentration, absently clicking pages on the padd, when the door to the room slides open.

"This is it. Show time."

"Your verbal commentary is unnecessary."

"Will you loosen up? Geez."

The Ambassador's dignified figure, even more stately in his Vulcan robes, sweeps gracefully into the room, pausing briefly just inside the door as he catches sight of the gold-shirted figure sitting at the other end of the table. Jim had subtly positioned the older Kirk facing away from the door and dimmed the lights slightly on purpose, and the move has obviously made the Ambassador think it's him sitting there at first glance.

 _"Captain?"_ The older Vulcan's pleasant voice rings clearly in the empty room.

The padd drops with a clatter from Kirk's hands, and he jerks around in his seat. Hazel eyes go wide as his lips part in dramatic shock.

"You did not tell _him_ the purpose of this rendezvous either?"

"Of course not, that would have spoiled the surprise!"

"Captain, this is –"

"Shhh!" He waves an impatient hand, because his eyes are on the two figures on the screen. Both appear to be almost frozen in a single moment of time, staring at each other.

 _"…Spock?"_ Kirk finds his voice, and power of movement, first. Rising slowly from his chair, hands braced on the polished surface, he makes his way cautiously, disbelievingly, around the table.

The Ambassador hasn't moved a muscle.

Kirk stops a few feet away from the elderly Vulcan, his expression one of utter disbelief. _"Spock,"_ he murmurs again, as if he couldn't find any other word and didn't really care to just at the moment. _"How…how long?"_

Spock's elderly counterpart turns his head away, eyes closed and hands clenched tightly behind him. When he does finally speak, his voice is hoarse, raw. _"Ninety-eight years. Three months. Seventeen days…and…"_ (2)

Well, that's not good. He hadn't really realized it was so long – practically a century! – since Old Spock had last seen his Jim Kirk. Or vice-versa; if time has no meaning in the Nexus as the old Vulcan said, then it's no wonder the captain looks a little horrified and shocked to see his old friend so…old.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he mutters uncomfortably.

"I believe the appropriate Terran expression is – do you _think_?" Spock hisses back.

On the viewscreen before them, Kirk moves slowly closer, almost warily, as if trying to avoid startling a frightened animal. One hand comes up to rest on the shoulder closest to him, thumb moving gently back and forth over the soft black fabric.

 _"Spock,"_ he says softly, but when he receives no answer, he frowns, squeezes the arm slightly. _"Spock, you're shaking. Look at me, please."_

_"…Jim."_

Just the one word, barely more than a breath of air in the stillness, but it's enough to make him want to sit there and sniffle like a child; to think that he might ever, in a million years, in a million universes, earn and more importantly deserve for someone to look at him like that – just the ridiculous _possibility_ is staggering.

And incredibly frightening.

Kirk's other hand moves up as well to rest gently on the Ambassador's other shoulder. _"I don't really know what's going on,"_ the former captain murmurs, almost reverently. _"I don't understand how I got here or why, or what I'm even doing. But, if you're here, then…Spock? Oh, Spock. Hey, it's all right…"_

Jim's eyes nearly pop out of his head.

"I thought you said Vulcans couldn't cr-"

"I have no comment on the matter."

* * *

" _What_ in the name of all that's _holy_ were you _thinking_? _Were_ you thinking?"

The bellow shakes the entire Sickbay, sending instruments rattling in fear within their trays. Jim watches in absent amusement as a trio of nurses scatter in the wake of the oncoming storm, scuttling out of sight in nearby cubicles. Christine, bless her, only shakes her head, going back to the patient she's tending to with well-practiced ease.

Jim once heard one of the nurses call his CMO a 'marshmallow covered in cactus spines,' and the metaphor is oddly apposite. Especially in times like this.

Unfortunately, this time the full wrath of righteous medical indignation is being turned on _him_.

"It isn't my fault! I didn't know!"

"I don't care what the hell you knew or didn't know, Jim!" The crash of a med-scanner being flung onto the nearest desk, skittering across the polished surface. "He's over a hundred and thirty years old! You don't go around givin' _anybody_ that age a major shock, even if he _is_ a Vulcan – and especially if his family has a history of cardiac issues!" (3)

He halts in his tracks, any amusement at the fracas vanishing into a tense knot at the base of his skull. "Heart trouble? Bones, I don't –"

"Yes, heart trouble! From what you – the _other_ you – tells me, his father started showing signs of cardiac disease when he was _way_ too young to be having serious health problems like that!" the physician snarls, brandishing an empty hypospray as if it were a formidable weapon. "Heart diseases or defects are often hereditary, you idiot! You don't just drop a _dead_ man into a room with _anybody_ who has a cardiovascular issue, I don't care _who_ he is!"

"Doctor, my family has no history of heart disease on either my maternal or paternal sides," Spock's cool voice soothes the tension for a moment. "Neither I nor the captain had any way of knowing that my counterpart's medical history in his universe was any different from my own. Had I been aware of this, I certainly would have made a more laborious attempt to prevent the captain from instituting his ill-conceived plans."

"Then I suggest you do more research the next time, because you could have _killed_ the poor devil!"

That takes all the fun out of it. Obviously. Even Spock looks stricken, and Jim knows he must look a hundred times as bad, judging from how quickly Bones goes from berating him to comforting.

"Aw, Jim, he'll be fine as long as you don't go resurrectin' any more ghosts for him. Just…be glad he's as stubborn as this one here," the physician sighs, patting him gently on the shoulder. Then a dark glare is turned upon the Vulcan standing calmly at his side. "And _you_ , you use that pointy-eared brain of yours next time and stop this moron before he does something stupid like that!"

"I object to both your use of the word _moron_ in reference to the captain and to your mixed metaphor regarding my gray matter, Doctor, but I assure you I will not allow such a situation as this to occur again. Will that satisfy you?"

Whatever the doctor mutters under his breath as he walks away isn't audible to human ears, but obviously is to Vulcan ones, based on Spock's reactive eyebrows. Jim sighs, raking a hand through his hair, and then side-eyes his First.

Spock's austere features soften slightly. "You had no way of knowing, Captain," he says. "Vulcans are not…forthcoming, regarding their private lives or histories."

"It was still a dumb idea."

"Indeed." He would have been offended, except that after all this time he can tell when he's being Vulcan-teased. It's oddly reassuring.

A sudden small commotion draws their attention to the recovery ward, and a minute later a very harried-looking older Kirk scuttles out the doorway of a cubicle, followed closely by their Chief Medical Officer, arms flailing dramatically.

"I said eight hours, and I _mean_ eight hours! You'll have the rest of your life to see him, so _get_!"

Yeah, some things are obviously universal constants, judging from the old man's instinctive obedience to someone just over half his age.

"At ease, Bones," Jim interjects in the torrent of protective invectives. "Is the Ambassador okay?"

"He'll be fine," the physician growls, "if I can keep this guy out of the room for long enough. Ambassador's in a light healing trance, Jim, but every time your _friend_ here gets within five feet of him his heart rate spikes and his brainwaves go crazy and – what the hell happened to _you_?" A sheepish looking redshirt has just stumbled into the 'Bay, holding what looks like a rag against his left arm. "I _told_ that man the next time one of his engineers shows up in here with an injury from plain old-fashioned _stupidity_ , I was gonna crack down on his safety protocols!"

"Annnnd that's our cue. You'd better steer clear for a while," Jim advises his older self, _sotto_ _voce_.

Apparently Kirk does nothing of the kind, because while Jim and Spock are checking on the half-dozen Science personnel injured in the recent battle with the Romulans, McCoy catches the older man trying again to sneak unnoticed into Old Spock's cubicle. The holler of "I said get out of there! What are you, twelve?!" follows them as they beat a hasty retreat a few minutes later, grateful that there apparently will be no lasting repercussions from Jim's ill-thought-out (if very satisfying) reunion scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Thirteen  
> (1) Sa-etek is, literally, go away (from me)  
> (2) Vulcan secondary eyelids are first mentioned in the TOS episode Operation Annihilate, in which Spock's inner eyelid protected him from being blinded by the full-spectrum light test.  
> (3) It really had been that long. The year 2293 was the time of the prologue for Generations (Kirk's disappearance into the Nexus); 2371, the body of Generations (Kirk's returning from the Nexus); and 2387, the time of the original 2009 film; then over three more year in this story's universe. Ninety-eight years, people. That's a long time.  
> (4) Sarek, Spock's father, was diagnosed with a cardiovascular issue in the episode Journey to Babel. While apparently the defect (healed by McCoy's surgery) was never brought up again in Trek canon, heart diseases usually have an element of heredity.


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve committed the literarily unpardonable sin of a POV shift, but I couldn’t very well have AOS Jim be the POV for what needed to be a private conversation. So we deal with it, yes?

**_Epilogue_ **

A sense of presence, followed by abrupt physical contact against his face is the first sensation which filters through the calming mesh of healing. Said sensation is soon followed by another, almost hesitant pat, hardly enough to really register on his drowsing senses.

Voices follow; one insistent, another defensive.

Both too nightmarishly familiar, and one somehow not, despite the familiarity. Memory overlaps with reality, painful and jarring, like incorrect algorithms being fed into a computer. A dichotomy of belonging and not, truth and error, right and wrong.

Negative; _both_ are wrong, as neither has he heard in almost a century.

"Not like that, you idiot, or he'll never come out of it. Haven't you had to do this at some point? You can't just give him one little smack and expect the pain to be enough to wake him up!"

"Your bedside manner is every bit as horrible as my McCoy's was, you know that right?"

"And you're quickly becoming as much a pain in my ass as that kid pacing up and down outside there. Now move. Your. Hand."

A sudden jolt of pain shivers through the dormant nervous system, echoing outward from the sting against his face; and then another, awakening dampened nerves and telegraphing sensation from the brain to the body.

And yet he struggles reluctantly against the return to awareness, as he will only have to face these child-ghosts of his past yet again, far too young versions of a life that had vanished prematurely so many years ago.

But to refuse to face reality is not logical, nor in fact possible; for the brain insists upon awakening and he can do nothing but reluctantly follow.

"That's it." That voice…he can distinguish now between it and the one from memory's recesses. It is not right; the inflection, the tonality, the pitch are vastly different despite the phrenology and accent being very like the well-loved tones of the Leonard McCoy he had known. "Once more should do it. Damned Vulcan physiology. Stubborn, isn't he?"

"Always has been."

His heart stutters slightly at the newcomer's words, and an alarm blares from somewhere overhead, causing a flurried curse in the not-quite-McCoy's voice.

"What happened?" Worry, concern…but it is not possible…

"Same thing that kept happening when you wouldn't stay out of here for the last few hours, his mind is recognizing you and having a _fit_ about hearing a dead man!"

"Should I – maybe I should leave."

"You try it and I'll tie you to that chair. Just because this's bound to be awkward as hell is no excuse for you to run away."

"Do you know how resentful I could be of being talked to in that tone by someone young enough to be my son?"

"Speaking of awkward."

A short laugh, so familiar. Then words, closer this time, almost next to his ear. "Come on, Spock, wake up, will you?" Pleading, almost begging, forlorn in their concern, and he feels the instinctive compulsion to answer them. "Doctor, why isn't he coming out of it by now?"

But this is not possible. He has been keeping careful watch upon himself for the onset of Bendii Syndrome, as it is entirely possible he could begin manifesting symptoms in the next ten years, though he had hardly expected them this early if at all. (1) But creating hallucinations of ghosts long dead, especially _that_ ghost…early onset is the most logical explanation, but he had hoped to have a few more years before senility began.

 _Pain_.

Another sharp slap, rougher this time, shatters that line of thought into a hundred pieces which fall about him in scattered bits, responding to the stimulus.

"Be careful!"

"He may be an _old_ Vulcan, but he's still a Vulcan! Let me do my job!"

"Um, guys…everything okay in here?"

"OUT, Jim!"

"Sheesh." Footsteps scurry away, and a small portion of his mind smiles; the young one is so like his deceased captain, and yet so not...

"Spock." Again, the voice he refuses to acknowledge, knowing it to be no more than a figment of an old, far too human imagination. It is impossible, and therefore should be ignored. "Bones, what's wrong with him?"

" _Don't_ call me that."

"Sorry. Force of habit?" Sorrow, tinged with fondness; he can and always has been able to dissect this voice and its emotions far better than he could his own.

"And I have no idea! All readings indicate he could wake up anytime, he just _isn't_. But I can’t keep him in this limbo, or whatever it is, much longer, or I’ll need to put him under again. It's more like he doesn't want to come out of it, not that he can’t."

Of course he does not desire to awaken and find that this had all been the onset of a truly vivid set of nightmarish hallucinations. That the brain could conjure up such things with such clarity after so very long, is nothing short of terrifying to an ordered mind.

A mutter, close by his head, though he cannot distinguish the words; sounding of determination and worry and something else he cannot readily identify. But it subsides momentarily, and the few moments of silence which follow enable him to again slow the process of returning to lucidity, falling back into the quiet solitude which is far preferable to facing this harsh reality he had inadvertently created so long ago.

Then from the silence That Voice suddenly slices through the mists, driving straight through his barriers with all the ease of long-practiced, deadly aim. "Spock, snap out of it this instant. That's an order from your captain, mister!"

Unfortunately, the heart remembers what the brain refuses to acknowledge, and he is no more able to disobey that tone and those words than he is to stop his own lungs from drawing in oxygen.

He surfaces, reluctantly opening weary eyes, and then promptly closes them again to shut out the ghosts which hover around him. Is it not enough that he has destroyed this other reality and its inhabitants due to his own miscalculation – must he be haunted by ghosts of his own scattered memories as well?

"Oh no you don't," the voice speaks again, much more gently this time. Something closes around his hand, warm pressure on cold fingers. "Don't shut me out, Spock."

He must, else that way lay madness, how could this figment of an aging mentality not see that?

"I know you're confused right now, but don't you dare retreat before learning all the facts, Science Officer." The tone has tightened into a familiar sternness, and he cannot refuse to acknowledge it.

Something pinches slightly at his neck, accompanied by a hissing noise, and he opens his eyes again to this young McCoy's smirk. "Well, you're as grumpy as my Spock when I do that," the young man observes sagely, looking far too pleased with himself.

"What did you just give him?" No, he will not look at the owner of The Voice just yet, for he cannot think of acknowledging whatever Truth that might force upon him. He keeps his eyes upon the young physician, one familiar unfamiliarity in this world.

"The Vulcan equivalent of caffeine, basically," McCoy replies, gesturing vaguely his direction with the empty cartridge. "A mild stimulant mixed with a vitamin cocktail and something to settle his stomach, not that I have to explain myself to _you_. He should be more lucid in a few minutes. I don't want him dropping back off for a few hours yet, not until I can get some decent readings from these scanners. _Don't_ excite him. You may not be my Jim Kirk but I'll still kick your ass right out of here if you give me any grief, understood?"

A brief chuckle. "Understood, Doctor."

"Hmph."

The hiss of pressurized doors closing signals the exit of this unique version of his own Leonard McCoy, and he closes his eyes again to assimilate the information which is filtering back through his brain at an alarming speed, filling in the gaps which had been muddled by a deep healing trance. His head is clearing, the uncertainty disappearing under the mild stimulant – he notes with absent amusement that in this universe Leonard McCoy is actually capable of concocting a drug which does not turn his stomach – and the remembrance of recent events falls into place with a startling clarity.

And then the inevitable conclusions are made, and the sensor over his head beeps angrily as it registers his growing awareness.

He remembers quite well the too-vivid, unbelievable reality of his last recollections.

He is not hallucinating.

This is reality.

_Jim._

His eyes fly open of their own accord to meet the amused, affectionate gaze that had probably never left him in the last few hours.

"There you are. Welcome back," Jim says softly.

The voice washes over him like a calming wave of warm water on a parched desert, taking with its flood all the uncertainty of the last few minutes spent trying to grasp what is truly reality and what merely wishful thinking.

"I do not understand," he whispers, voice hoarse with disbelief. "How can you be here?"

"Long story, one that can wait until we have time to compare notes on all that's happened. The important thing is, that I _am_ here – that we _both_ are, thank the stars." That smile, the one he had never thought to see again in anything other than a tiny holo-image, suddenly shines brilliant sunlight into the room, banishing the shadows with a familiar unleashed power.

He feels his own lips curve just slightly in response, and from the dancing light answering from his former captain's eyes knows the man can still read him as clearly as one of those antique books he so loves.

Jim's hand tightens slightly. "Gods help me, but I was never so relieved in my life as I was when they told me somebody else was stranded here as well as I." The corners of the human's eyes crinkle, adding laugh wrinkles to the ones already present in the aging face. "They've told me all about it. You really couldn't stay out of trouble even _without_ my influence, could you?"

What he has done, is no joking matter; and yet he feels a tiny spark of amusement just the same at the words. His captain had always been capable of generating humor and determined calm in any situation, no matter how dire.

And yet the fact remains; this universe's very existence, warped as it is, is due entirely to his error, his miscalculation. The fact that no one could have predicted the Romulan sun going supernova before its time makes no difference to two worlds now destroyed; blame by definition must be attributed to someone, and he is the most likely candidate. He destroyed his own dreams of uniting Romulus and Vulcan, and in the process destroyed these young ones' chances at the life he had led. Destroyed his home world in this universe, and half the universe's scientific knowledge with it.

"Spock." The word draws his attention back to the well-remembered face before him, and he obediently attends. Jim's smile has faded into a concerned frown as he leans closer. "I can't tell what you're thinking exactly, but whatever it is, you're wrong."

He no longer is surprised that this particular human can seem to sense his thoughts and – Surak forbid, but it is true – his emotions, without any innate telepathic abilities. Jim had always been special, unique; an individual unheard-of in Vulcan history, an outworlder who somehow, no one knew how, had wormed his way so deeply intertwined with Vulcan and her people that he was if not accepted, at least respected, by Vulcan and human alike. (2) Now, that perspicacity is obviously flaring as strongly after so many decades as it had the last they had met.

"I mean it, Spock," Jim reiterates sternly. "They've shown me the history books and let me analyze the reports. There was nothing more you could have done."

"You do not know this." No one does. Jim shakes his head, about to speak, but he continues with, "You are the one who stated that there is always an alternative. Never a true Kobayashi Maru which cannot be won."

"Not always," the human replies quietly, eyes downcast. "Not completely." And through the light touch on his hand he can instantly feel the swamping dread and grief of a cadet patrol gone badly wrong, a vengeance-bent super-man who succeeded where no one else had before in parting them, nearly making McCoy a casualty in the process of reunion. He is grateful that a parallel event in this universe, at least, had an easier ending than theirs. Jim meets his eyes again after a moment. "Sometimes you have to settle for a second chance instead, Spock."

He raises a calculating eyebrow. "Or a third?"

Jim laughs, a half-choked, relieved sound. "Or fourth, or fifth, or whatever we're on now," he agrees, smiling through hazy eyes. "Sometimes that's all we get, Spock. It'll have to be enough."

"You do not know what I have permitted to occur in this timeline," he protests, his self-guilt weakening under the influence of that smile.

"And I don't need to. _Kaiidth_ , Spock." The Vulcan word slips as easily from the human's lips as it would from a Vulcan's, and the sound of his own language soothes the fractured mess of regret which has been his reality for years now. "You know this as well as I; we cannot change the past without changing our futures. To wish that we could is unproductive and…illogical."

He casts his eyes ceiling-ward in exasperation. Once this particular stubborn human has made up his mind on a matter, no amount of logic will convince him otherwise; this he well knows.

Jim laughs, a bubbling, joyful sound. "You've no idea how much I missed that."

"I might be capable of guessing," he counters quietly, still reeling from the sudden upending of nearly a century's accumulation of loss. "It has been…so long."

"I can't imagine," the human whispers. "Time had no meaning in the Nexus; it feels like it's only been a few weeks since the shakedown of the _Enterprise-B_. So for me it's only been a few weeks since we said goodbye that last time." Kirk's face pales slightly. "My gods, I hadn't really realized how much longer it's been for you. You've lived an average human's entire _lifetime_ , haven't you."

He closes his eyes briefly. It has, indeed, been a lifetime. They have been apart now for over four times the amount of years they knew each other. And yet, through the decades, this one loss has never quite healed, never been forgotten. The pain may have diminished with time, but the ache remained. One does not so soon forget such a unique connection, one that happens but once in a lifetime to most, if they are so fortunate.

"Much has happened, much has changed, in these decades. I am not the same being I was when you last saw me, Jim."

"I understand that." The human's eyes glint briefly. "But I suspect I'll like the new just as much as the old, Spock. If you'll have me."

He glances meaningfully around them. "I suspect I have little choice in the matter." Jim easily picks up on his amusement and smiles, unoffended.

"That will be a change, for me at least. Neither of us has ever been a good passive bystander, have we?"

"Negative."

"What do you do, now? The kids out there said something about you being a research scientist?"

"Of sorts. Due to the complications resulting from the timeline distortion, we deemed it safest for me to only resume my ambassadorial duties if absolutely needed, as the documentation is somewhat hard to explain."

"Obviously."

"I am a research scientist at present for the survivors' colony on New Vulcan." Curiosity sparks in the human's eyes. "Originally I fulfilled the role of a substitute mental healer, as the resulting deaths and illnesses from broken familial and marriage bonds threatened to decimate those few survivors after the destruction. Anyone with even minimal experience in empathic coping was needed for many months, until the survivors stabilized."

"You were always one of the best psychologists I knew, other than Bones," Jim remarks pensively. Then his eyes widen. "Oh, _Bones_ …Spock, what – was he…?"

"He was in no pain when his time came," he reassures quietly, for he knew it to be true despite being on Romulus at the dear human's passing. "He lived a long and fulfilled life, Jim; a Starfleet Admiral and a respected figure in Vulcan scientific circles."

A choked laugh. "He swore he'd never become one!"

"Indeed. But time changes all of us."

"So it does." Kirk's eyes fill with tears. "I'm so sorry, Spock. Sorry I left you both, so soon."

"It was not an event which you could prevent, Jim. And though he grieved your loss, he, as I, was pleased that you had…gone out, as you would say, among the stars. Saving the ship you loved above all else. It was far more fitting, than failing of old age in retirement. Such was not your destiny, and he recognized that."

Tears shine still unshed in the hazel eyes, as they flick toward the cubicle's exit and then back to the bio-bed. "I miss him so much, Spock," the human whispers brokenly. "Seeing these kids…especially that McCoy…and knowing that it just _isn't him_ …"

His heart clenches, and his hand echoes the reflex with its own grip. "I know."

Jim looks up, realization dawning visibly over his expressive features. "You do, don't you. You've had to live it for what, three years now? You were thrown into it far more painfully than I was, if the reports are accurate."

"It was…difficult." An immense, immeasurable understatement. The pain had been nearly unbearable, meeting a young version of this man just after watching his planet and all she represented disintegrate before his eyes. He still regrets the hasty, ill-prepared mind meld he had nearly forced upon the younger Jim Kirk, because he had not the time to prepare the young man nor to shield his own mind from spilling over the emotional turbulence he had not had time to control. While _pi_ 'Jim has reassured him he took no undue liberty and should not feel guilt at the poor decision, it had still been yet another mistake on his part. One more in a chain of horrific errors that had nearly cost them all everything. (3)

"Spock?" The question is tentative enough he realizes his mind has wandered. These ghosts have no place in the present; and only a fool wastes a second chance. He returns his gaze to the expectant face before him.

"Yes, Captain?"

The title falls easily from his lips, even after so many years, and seeing the delighted smile that beams down at him he resolves to continue; after all, he doubts that the young man not-very-subtly eavesdropping outside will mind. And it would be illogical to break such a habit.

Jim leans forward, resting his arms on the thermal blanket. "Show me," he requests gently. "Show me why you still blame yourself. What you did, and think you should have done. You know I won't ask you to talk to me about it – but show me?"

He looks away, unprepared for this next step in assimilating this reality. He has not participated in a true, intimate mind-joining in decades, not since Captain Picard's news of his father's death. This is part of the reason he had performed so poorly with young Jim, and thankfully only a shallow meld was necessary; he had not in any way been prepared for such an intimate action. "You do not know what you ask."

"Spock." He never has been able to resist those eyes. Even after nearly a century, this one man can still break all barriers with only a look. "I _ask_ …that you let me help."

The words are purposeful, and they both know it; and he is powerless to resist. (4) The allure of permitting someone to at last absolve him of the guilt he has harbored silently for so long, is just too enticing. He knows Jim's mind promises no blame, only understanding; and he who had given such absolution to others as a healer on New Vulcan had never spared a thought for himself. To avail one's self of such assistance from a trusted source is only logical, surely.

Jim completes the decision for him in true impetuous fashion, turning his head slightly to allow access and then guiding his own unsteady hand into position – a gesture of complete trust, foolish as it is to become so vulnerable before another being. Strangely enough, this one human has never been afraid of him, not from the first time a mission gone wrong had forced them to unexpectedly enter a shared mind-space. It had been the beginning of something so unheard-of between species, so unique, that even his own full-blooded Vulcan peers grudgingly acknowledged its validity.

"I am not properly prepared. What you see could be…painful."

"Not as painful as dealing with it alone. For once, just _once_ , Spock – think of yourself, not everyone else."

"Captain, I –"

"Go on," the man whispers intensely, that familiar staccato delivery punctuating the words with urgency. The eyes above his fingers spark gold-green with intensity. " _Show_ me."

He shifts his fingers slightly into the proper position. "My mind to your mind…"

* * *

Well.

Jim has probably never seen anything more… _beautiful_ , is the word, in his entire life.

His own mental joining – mind dump, more like – with the Ambassador those years ago had been nothing like this. It had _hurt_ ; the sheer amount of grief and anger and heartbreak and urge to _killhurtdestroy_ and sadness and loneliness had been enough to give him nightmares for weeks afterwards, and had opened up an entirely new perspective for him on the fact that hell yes, Vulcans do feel. More deeply than he'd ever imagine was possible.

The old man had had no intention of harming him, he knows that; but he had lost control of the meld, according to a couple discussions they've had on the subject. Jim isn't bitter about it, because for heaven's sake the poor guy has enough on his plate without having to worry about Jim Kirk's fragile human brain overloading with the galaxy at stake, but it's a little hard now to watch this.

 _This_ , being how it's _supposed_ to be, evidently.

There's just something a little heartbreaking about watching two old men cry without knowing they are.

He isn't the only one, whose best destiny had been ruthlessly wrenched out of his control.

Halfway through the meld, his older counterpart's hands had reached out blindly, fumbling until one rested in a mirroring position on the old Vulcan's face, the other clenched trembling in the folds of the ambassador's robe. The open grief, the open sympathy, the open whatever-else-that-is that he dares not put a name to – he feels like he's committing an unpardonable violation of privacy, and yet for just one moment, he can't help but watch, his heart twisting.

Even a glimpse into half-veiled thought-memories in a hasty mind-joining on Delta Vega couldn't have prepared him for the sheer magnitude of _emotion_ that illuminates the small room with something he may never have, probably can't even have, because of how screwed up his own reality already has been. Their symbiosis holds a fluid grace of gentility and deference that only serves to make him self-conscious, awkward, aware all too clearly of his own brittle camaraderie with his own First Officer. He is a peasant in the company of gentle beings, a court jester in the midst of nobility, a child before respected elders, a lucky _nobody_ thrown awkwardly into the place of another universe's most famous Starfleet hero.

A struggling, pathetic captain in the presence of history's greatest starship command team.

And to top it all off, who can compete with immortality? These two are the stuff that legends and dreams are made of, and unfortunately such magic has no place in this harsher reality. It's just too painful a reminder of how twisted his own destiny is, and the open sting of the wound finally becomes too raw.

He flees Sickbay like the coward he is, not even seeing Spock as he brushes past the Vulcan in the corridor outside.

* * *

He isn't sure how long he's been on the Observation Deck, but it's long enough that his legs are starting to fall asleep from the pressure of his elbows as he sits, elbows on knees and fists propped under his chin, staring out at the stars.

Ever since that one time at a precocious four years old, when his mother had actually been home long enough to take him on a trip to the Des Moines Planetarium, he had fallen in love with the stars. They had beckoned him for years, though the siren song had been muted, distorted through more heartache than he would even admit to himself or anyone else – but still, they had remained his sole constant through all those who had failed before. They promise adventure, exploration, opportunity, and in return only demand his undying loyalty and affection.

The stars are unchanging, beautiful and distant, constant and true guides through life - or so poetry always said. You can order your life and steer your ship by them, in any century. Their cycles govern personalities, and their allure evokes passion and dreams. Their ethereal beauty filters through billions of light-years to produce a sense of calm, of peace, and every child knows to wish upon their twinkling brilliance.

But somewhere out there, there is a light missing; a haunting, stark reminder of the fate that had befallen the greatest, most revered planet in the Federation. The shining light of Vulcan's now-dying sun can still be seen from Earth, from the Sol system and others nearby, for it has not yet been entirely drawn past the event horizon of the black hole which took her planet. But everything Vulcan stood for, the billions of souls lost amid her destruction, the scientific knowledge that died with her, are all long gone; and when her star finally is absorbed by the black hole, the last reminder of what they had lost will truly be no more. No one can even visit the site of Vulcan’s destruction to respectfully grieve, because of the method by which she was destroyed. Nero had made certain of that.

Q was right in one thing, he reflects bitterly, as his eyes scan the twinkling heavens for the thousandth time. Destiny has _irretrievably_ botched this timeline.

He is glad for the Ambassador's sake that things turned out as they did; he isn't _that_ selfish, thank you very much. But he has to feel just a little bitterness over the fact that it had, ultimately, been the elderly Vulcan's doing that started the ball of chaos rolling through their universe. Though Spock of course wasn't to blame for Nero or for Romulus's sun going nova, the vestiges of blame still hover over him – for they have to blame someone, that is human nature. He's spent more than enough time blaming himself, and it's a little bit of a relief to be able to, however briefly, direct that at someone else.

But he had seen the soft light of pure joy that had appeared in the old Vulcan's eyes when he caught sight of a man he believed long dead, and he can't begrudge either Old Spock or his own counterpart what little remnants of comfort they have right now in each other. They are _all_ each other has, now…so why in the universe is he so hopelessly, horribly _jealous_ of them?

He isn't really surprised when the doors to the Observation Deck open behind him – only one person aboard can override a locking clearance that high – and a moment later a body settles silently beside him on the bench before the largest of the transparent aluminum windows.

They sit in silence for a good three or four minutes, give or take. Then he sighs, and glances over at Spock's impassive face, now softened and outlined in bluish-purple halos from the starlight.

"This whole thing is just…strange, you know?" he asks, quite seriously.

"Indeed," is the quiet reply, though Spock's eyes are elsewhere, looking into the distance in a direction Jim sadly suspects is the way Vulcan had lain. "You appear to have become melancholy, rather than maintaining your former excitement, regarding the outcome of this mission," Spock adds, not without gentleness, but with an audible note of hesitancy.

"Yeah," he agrees softly, but offers no explanation.

None is needed, at least for now, and he is grateful for that. For a long time they sit, looking out at the stars, and saying nothing.

"I can't stop thinking about it," he finally blurts, not even knowing why he is talking or if he should shut up before he embarrasses himself to a _Vulcan_ , of all beings.

Spock's voice, when he finally gives his full attention, is at least sincerely curious. "About what, Captain?"

"About…everything," he mutters, leaning more weight on his elbows and keeping his eyes on the floor, hands clasped before him. "How messed up our timeline is. How that maybe Q was right when he said we probably should just not exist in the first place. It's just…so wrong, Spock." His voice is almost a whisper at the end, and at that point he doesn't care if he is probably broadcasting a full spectrum of emotions at his poor Vulcan friend. "If only things had been different. If I'd been one minute quicker on that drill! We –"

"Enough, Jim." Spock's voice slices through the unhappy muddle that is his brain, but so gently that it feels more like a cleansing than an admonishment. "What is, is, and it cannot be changed. We could continue wishing otherwise for eternity, but that will not change that which exists."

"I know," he whispers. The chill that had sifted through his whole body has settled somewhere near his heart, and now it contracts painfully. "Believe me, I know. But I don't think I'll ever be able to stop thinking about what could have been different, if only I'd acted sooner, or made better decisions. I feel like I’ve only ever tried my hardest and it’s just…not been what anyone thought it should be." He sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment over his clasped hands.

Spock is silent, neither condemning nor excusing nor absolving, which is only what he had expected.

What he had _not_ expected, was for his XO to move slightly closer to him on the bench, so close he can feel the presence of the body next to his own.

He doesn't look up, and so when Spock speaks it startles him, just a little.

"One meter, fifteen-point-five centimeters."

His head jerks up so quickly a vertebra snaps satisfyingly in his neck. "Come again?" he asks, lost at the _non sequitur_.

Spock is staring at some non-existent spot on the durasteel flooring, his eyes filled only with star-reflection and pain. "One meter, fifteen-point-five centimeters, Captain. Had I been able to span that distance with my arm and hand, or had I taken two paces forward before Ensign Chekov activated the transporter lock…"

Oh.

He has to swallow on a fist of sick nausea that has just punched him in the stomach, before he nods in mute, silent sympathy.

Spock's eyes slide over to meet his, deep and dark in the painful understanding that only comes of shared survival. "Not a day passes, that I do not consider what might have been, Jim," he says quietly. "But to linger on such thoughts is neither healthy nor productive. What is past, must remain so, else it is a disservice to the present."

"I know," he agrees, sighing. "But that doesn't make it any easier to stomach, does it?"

"It does not." Spock shakes his head, and they fall silent for a moment.

Then – "We're not them, you know," he suddenly and almost painfully changes the subject, not really knowing where the words are coming from.

The ironic eyebrow flits upward just a fraction. "I am well aware, Captain."

"Rhetorical, Spock. But seriously," he continues, half-turning toward his First, "I've never seen anything like that. I mean you could almost feel the…" he gestures helplessly, trying to formulate a description.

Spock arches an eyebrow. "The _trust_ , between them?"

He winces; you can always count on a Vulcan to knife into the heart of the matter, twisting the blade as he goes. "Yeah. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a very trusting individual, Spock."

"That is also rhetorical, I presume."

"Shut up," he chuckles, secretly delighted that in this area his Spock at least has no objection to meeting fire with fire. "Nobody's perfect, Spock."

"Including the individuals from our parent universe, despite your seeming belief that they are."

Okay, that's just rude. And true. He snorts. "Do you ever get tired of being right, Spock?"

"Negative."

A brittle laugh. "Well one of us has to be." He swallows, staring out at the stars. "Gods know I have no idea what I'm doing sometimes. Most of the time."

"That is inaccurate."

"No, it's realistic. Humans _are_ capable of that sometimes, you know."

"It is not realism when the statement is based upon an incorrect conjecture. Your temporary self-doubt does not negate your ability to command, Captain."

"This, from the man who got _commanded_ to kill himself for the sake of the ship," he says ironically, though still feeling the sick knot of dread inside from that awful day. "I really think you might have issues, Commander."

"If so, I believe I am in appropriate company."

"Touché." He has to laugh, because it's true. "We're a couple of well-matched head cases." He glances sideways for a moment. "Speaking of which, how are you doing, with the whole, you know. Resurrecting thing."

His First shifts slightly, one of his tells. Jim raises an eyebrow. "I am…as expected," Spock replies at last, lifting one eyebrow in a self-deprecating shrug. "I believe you are aware, more than most might be, that these things…take time."

"Gods, yes. I was a wreck, you know that."

"And yet it is possible, to successfully cope with such a thing."

"I had pretty awesome help, Spock."

"And I have access to the same."

He shakes his head, staring aimlessly out at the stars. "I wish I had your confidence, Spock. I really do."

There is silence to his right for a very _so_ _very_ awkward few moments, during which he calculates absently how quickly he can get to the sliding doors before his First starts logically freaking out at his illogical insecurities. And then Spock's calm voice, dark with intensity, interrupts his trajectory computations.

"Whatever our lives might have been before the distortion of Time, our destinies have changed, Jim. Do you still believe yours to be to command a Federation starship, specifically the _Enterprise_?"

He doesn't even need to think about it; even if he isn't ever going to be a legend, this ship and her amazing people belong to _him,_ thanks very much. "Without question."

"I cannot profess to foresee the entirety of what is now this universe's Destiny. But, I have it on good authority that mine, at least, is to be by your side. _Captain_."

He looks up, and warmth wraps around him despite the chill of the star-strewn glass before them. For a moment their reflections peer hazily back at them, side by side beneath the galaxy's vast expanse. Both equally defiant in the face of an unfair Destiny.

"I can live with that," he whispers at last, and Spock's reflection smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes
> 
> Chapter Fourteen  
> (1) Bendii Syndrome is what Ambassador Sarek finally died of as we see in the ST:TNG episodes in which he appears, Sarek and Unification (Part I). I see it as a kind of Vulcan emotional Alzheimer's disease; a terminal degenerative neurological condition which causes an inability to control emotion. Nothing is said about it being hereditary, but I'm trying to draw some continuity here.  
> (2) This may sound melodramatic, but if you truly research and read between the lines of the original Star Trek trilogy (II, III, and IV), you'll find that it is true. From Amok Time to Journey to Babel to The Search for Spock to The Voyage Home, James Kirk's destiny has been intertwined with the planet Vulcan. Ambassador Sarek's attitude underwent drastic changes toward him from JtB to TVH, and I like exploring that transformation.  
> (3) For a long time, that scene in ST:09 bothered me so badly; one, as being highly out of character for Spock, but two, because a properly-controlled mind meld should not produce such emotional transference. The closest we see to such a thing is in ST:III, when Sarek forcibly coerces Kirk into a meld in order to view Spock's death. I believe from what is shown on screen that Sarek was grieving and therefore not gentle with Kirk's mind, and the resulting emotional transference was his fault. Understandably, Ambassador Spock was emotionally compromised beyond belief, and, when one understands that – other than the meld with Captain Picard at the end of Unification, Part II (TNG) – Spock had not performed a mind-joining that we know of in many decades, it seems a bit less drastic that he lost control of it in 09.  
> (4) Non-TOS geeks may not recognize the significance of the phrase, if they have not seen the episode City on the Edge of Forever. In that episode, a stranded-in-the-1930s Kirk tells a woman named Edith Keeler that someday in her future, someone will write a novel about that phrase, and will recommend Let me help over any other words in the spoken language, including I love you. (It's an interesting point that the next time we hear the phrase is in the very next episode, Operation Annihilate; Spock to Kirk after Kirk's brother is killed by the Denevan neurological parasites).


End file.
